The Night Path
by skandrae
Summary: An AU fic - a vampire fic with potential yaoi in later chapters - Ken x Ran (Humble Apology - in which the author grovels and tries to explain her reprehensible actions.)
1. Prologue

Moonless evenings were the best for hunting.  
  
Certainly, a full moon would have made things a bit easier for him; made the prey easier to spot, easier to track, easier to cut down and devour. But easier was not the same thing as better.  
  
It had taken him many years of hunting to realize that.  
  
A moonless night gave the prey hope. Lack of illumination lent the illusion of escape, of freedom. He could almost hear the prey thinking, "He can't see me, he doesn't know I am here, there is a chance I will live out this night." It was untrue; once targeted as prey, there was no escape. But the prey didn't know that.  
  
He was relentless in pursuit, whether it was over the moors and through the forest wilderness, or through the crowded ballrooms and streets of London. He had learned to enjoy the hunt almost as much as the kill: to glory in his speed and strength, his preternatural senses.  
  
But, his enjoyment of it notwithstanding, the true purpose of the hunt was the kill. And he was a most magnificent killer.  
  
He had been following the prey for hours, toying with him like a cat with a wing-clipped sparrow. He allowed him moments of rest, watching him from the blanketing darkness. He enjoyed the way nature assisted him in his game: the sounds a forest made at night terrified his prey. Truly, the man was more afraid of the forest than he was of the hunter.  
  
But that would change. Soon.  
  
It wasn't as if the man didn't deserve to know fear. He thought himself a master in the infliction of the emotion: a dark priest of ancient demons, an acolyte of the devil. He felt that the screams he tore from the throats of his innocent victims were purchasing him a special seat at the right hand of the Dark One.  
  
The hunter felt otherwise.  
  
He called to mind his prey's last victim. Her fingers, pale white digits painted with her own blood, had twitched under his when he leaned over her. He had been shocked that she was alive still, but had quickly realized that she would not be among the living much longer. Even if he had offered her a choice, there was no guarantee that she would survive the Change.  
  
As he leaned over her, she opened her eyes (strange eyes, the colour of spring's first violets) and locked her gaze with his. "Please," she whispered. "Please stop him."  
  
"I will. I swear it." Hearing that, she closed her eyes again, and tilted her head to the side. Her golden hair fell from her neck, exposing the white column. The scent of her blood was thick in the air.  
  
"Take it," she whispered. "I won't mind so much if it is you that ends my life."  
  
He had wanted to protest, but the blood-hunger in him was stronger than he had realized. As he lowered his head, as he drank in her life, he tasted no fear, only sorrow and regret. He had stroked her hair until it was over. He had buried her body, and laid flowers on her grave. And then he began his hunt.  
  
Others of his kind thought him strange for choosing his victims with such care. While the others took their victims randomly, he delighted in taking those who harmed other humans. He said that the blood of evildoers had a special taste to it. Not for his immortal life would he admit to any of the others that he got satisfaction from the knowledge that he was killing monsters. Monsters that were far more prolific than his own kind.  
  
The prey stirred slightly, shifting the branches of the shrub he hid in. The hunter smiled slightly: feral and cruel. Swift and silent as the shadows, he moved into position behind his prey. He stretched a hand out, and tapped the unsuspecting man's shoulder. The prey shrieked, and spun around to face the hunter.  
  
"You should probably run now."  
  
The sheer terror in the eyes of the prey was priceless. Stubby legs tangled together as he tried to turn and run simultaneously, and he landed in the same shrub he had used for shelter. The hunter placed one booted foot on the small of the prey's back, grinding his heel slightly.  
  
"You'd prefer to play, then?" Mocking.  
  
He dropped down, straddling the fallen man. Leaning down so his mouth was at the prey's ear, he whispered, "I was hoping to show you what I learned from a girl named Rachel…I thought you might appreciate it." He could hear the sudden increase in the prey's heartbeat. "Rachel asked me to show you, especially…" The prey's eyes widened, and the scent of terror increased.  
  
He wrenched the prey's limp body around, still straddling his waist, and brought his face in close. As if by design, the clouds above parted, allowing a thin thread of moonlight to catch on the hunter's face. He bared his teeth, knowing that the elongated canines would be limned with the light, and growled.  
  
The man beneath him whimpered, and wet himself.  
  
"I'll begin now."  
  
  
  
Hours later, with the dawn rapidly approaching, the hunter stepped back from the ravaged carcass, and delicately brushed his hand across his mouth. Delicious.  
  
He could feel the dawn approaching, tendrils of daylight reaching into the night sky. He didn't fear the day the way his European counterparts seemed to, but neither did he relish it. Bright light didn't agree with him, and the countryside seemed to have more than its fair share. There was only one thing for him to do.  
  
The hunter must return to London Town. 


	2. 1 Old Friends

Notes: I've been having something of a hard time with this – I've never written a story in parts before. Usually I just write everything at once, but I figured if I did that, you wouldn't see it for several months. Also, I have no beta-readers, so if any spelling/grammar mistakes slip through, I apologize. (I found two in the prologue after I submitted it.) Mmm, and I'm Canadian, so I spell some words differently, like colour and favour…those aren't typos.  
  
C&C desperately desired…I'll even take flames, if they contain good grammar.  
  
  
  
Chapter One – Old Friends  
  
  
  
Lady Lucy Fairchild took pleasure in two things.  
  
The first was her ability to throw the best parties in London. No other hostess could boast a better supper table, a more lavish ballroom, or, most importantly, a more cosmopolitan guest list. Lady Fairchild befriended them all: French émigrés, Russian nobles, Italians and Spaniards, Arabs and Indians. A great traveler in her youth, age and ill health had curbed her wandering ways, and so she was forced to draw the far parts of the world to herself. And while her exotic guests might not be welcome in the drawing rooms of most of the aristocracy, none of the Upper Ten Thousand would dream of refusing an invitation to one of Lady Fairchild's soirees.  
  
The second thing she took pleasure in appeared at first to be one of those exotic guests.  
  
He sat beside her in companionable silence, and she took the opportunity to study him, as she had many times during their acquaintance. His dark hair hung about his face, looking as though he had just run his hands through it, even though she knew she hadn't seen him touch it the entire evening. She had often heard the young misses who flocked about him describing it as "chocolate" coloured, which made her laugh. Chocolate, indeed. His hair was brown, and if she were forced to use a flowery descriptive adjective, she would say "mahogany", like the desk in her late husband's study. Plain, but elegant.  
  
"What are you thinking about, Lucy?" His voice was cultured, free of any trace of an accent. On one level, it was the type of voice a person might hear in any drawing room in London, but on another…She shivered at the thoughts the husky voice conjured in her. On that other level, her companion's voice was something that ought to be restricted to a bedroom: teasing and coaxing and compelling all at once.  
  
"You, of course, my darling," she murmured provocatively. He turned his gaze toward her, his delicate almond shaped eyes searching hers. "I am wondering how you can sit here beside me so calmly, when there are hunters abroad." She leaned slightly towards him. "You know that they're out for blood tonight…"  
  
"I haven't the faintest idea what you mean, Lady Lucy," he said, flushing slightly.  
  
"I think you do, my darling." She lowered her voice. "I know that you can feel them around you…watching you. Their hunger is almost tangible. How can you bear to sit beside me with such a threat hanging over your head?"  
  
He shifted uncomfortably. If he hadn't been aware of the presence of the hunters before, she had made him most painfully aware. She smiled, a devilish light in her eyes.  
  
"Oh, they want more than just your blood, my pet. They want your body, too. That lean body, those whipcord muscles, those 'chocolate' eyes…you are an addiction." She leaned back in her chair and snapped open her fan. "They begrudge the time you spend here with me. I've felt their eyes burning me for the past half hour."  
  
"Surely you exaggerate, Lucy," he said, his tone coloured slightly with impatience. "These hunters you speak of are nothing I would concern myself with."  
  
"You should, my darling. Across the entire world, I defy you to find adversaries more dangerous than those who have gathered in my ballroom tonight. I defy you to find hunters more persistent, more daring. Particularly in this house, which is known by all to operate under more…flexible rules than most of society."  
  
"Are you telling me that you consider them to be a threat to me?" His voice was amused, incredulous. "To me, of all men?"  
  
"To you, of all men, indeed. Foreign, mysterious, and most of all," her voice dropped to a whisper, "forbidden. Their minds tell them 'No', but their hearts and their…hearts tell them 'Oh, yes, yes, yes'…" By the telltale flush that covered his cheeks, she could tell that he knew exactly what she had meant with her talk of hearts and hearts. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair again. She decided to take pity on him. She rose.  
  
"Will you accompany me to the garden, Mr. Hidaka," she said in a slighter louder voice than they had been using. "I simply must show you how the tree you suggested looks." He rose, and offered her his arm, and they made their way through the throng to the French doors that led into the garden.  
  
She led him deep into the garden, through decorative hedges and past small fountains, to a small clearing. The moon cast its light upon them, limning the contours of a small statue and bench and the leaves of a small maple tree that stood beside the statue.  
  
"And here I thought the tree was just an excuse to be alone with me," he teased. "I didn't realize you had actually planted one."  
  
"I had it imported from Japan, after hearing you talk about them. I look forward to seeing the colours in the fall," she said, leaving her hand on his arm. "I wish that I could have seen it in its original home, though. I should have liked to have seen row upon row of Japanese maples. Actually," she corrected herself, "I should have liked to have seen Japan."  
  
His voice was soft, caressing. "I think you would have liked Japan."  
  
"But would Japan have liked me? The conflict there, the civil war. The whole business of 'Revere the Emperor, expel the barbarians'? I think that, as a foreigner, I would not have been welcomed readily." She sighed deeply. "I shall have to content myself with making it as far east as India, and let the matter rest."  
  
He smiled. "In the Japan of my childhood, in my small village, you would probably have been called a demon woman. Skin as pale as the moon, hair as bright as the sun, eyes like grass…oh, yes, they would have called you a demon."  
  
"Youkai onna, ne?" she said, laughter bubbling within her as she slipped easily into Japanese. "Well, then, it wouldn't have been very different from here, would it? No different from the days when Damon and I were 'Demon' Fairchild and his devil bride…"  
  
"Demon and Lucifera," he laughed. "The Unholy Pair…"  
  
"It's almost impossible to believe that it was so long ago." She snuck a sidelong glance at him. "Do you know what today is?"  
  
"Of course I do," he replied, turning to face her directly. "Forty years ago tonight, I met you and Damon for the first time."  
  
She smiled. "Forty years ago, on a night like this, under such a moon…in a garden in Italy." She laughed. "We thought that the world was too small to contain us, that eternity stretched out at our feet. Meeting you seemed to prove it." Her smile faltered slightly. "But of the three of us, only you stood outside of time."  
  
A flicker of pain crossed her features, and she pressed her free hand against her side. He noticed the subtle motion, and coaxed her to sit on the bench. As she released his arm, he asked, "Are you alright?" She nodded, keeping her head down.  
  
"Sometimes I hate to have you look at me," she said quietly.  
  
"You hate me?" he asked, confusion painted across his face.  
  
"No, my darling," she murmured. "It's not because I hate you, but because I hate to think of you looking at what I have become, what time has done to me." She sighed, raising a hand to her cheek. "Forty years ago, I was a slender girl with golden hair and red lips, with a loving husband and a future to look forward to. What do you see when you look at me now?" She laughed again, but it was bitter and pained. "A pudgy, grey haired, childless widow, whose only claim to fame is the number of scandalous parties she throws."  
  
"Lucy…Don't you know what I see when I look at you?" he asked, lifting a hand to her chin, raising her face. "My truest friend and confidante…sheltering arms and a comforting shoulder. You accept me for what I am, and you do not shrink from me. In all the years I have spent in this shadow world, you are the only person who has done so."  
  
He moved his hand to brush over her hair. "And in this garden, under this moon, you look exactly like the girl I met in Italy. The moonlight gilds your hair in the same way; it gleams on the mischief in your eyes in the same way. I see my friend Damon's bride."  
  
"What else do you see?" she whispered, turning her cheek into his palm.  
  
"I see you in a moonlit bedroom," he murmured. "Dressed in a silk nightgown with your hair loose about your shoulders. Your eyes were teary, like dew on the grass, but your smile was warm." She turned her face slightly, pressing her lips against his palm. "After Damon died, when you sought comfort in my arms."  
  
"Did you think it wrong of me?" A secret shame, a burden of guilt kept silent for twenty-five years.  
  
"No, my angel…I never thought it wrong." He rubbed his thumb across her cheek, along the trail of an unshed tear. "I only wished that there was more I could have done for you both."  
  
She raised her head sharply, looking directly into his eyes. "We wouldn't have accepted, Ken. You know that."  
  
It was his turn to sigh, as he seated himself beside her on the bench. "I know, Lucy, I know. And I wouldn't have offered before…but seeing your grief, knowing that I could have done something to prevent pain for both of you…"  
  
"We were mortal, my darling. Death is the natural outcome of life." She lifted her hand, cupping his cheek as he had done to her. "And once Damon died, I had no desire to live forever."  
  
"But you are in pain now," he said. "I see how they come upon you, the spasms and dizziness. I know about the drugs your doctor gives you. I could have spared you that."  
  
"I welcome the pain, Ken. I know I do not have much longer to live. And when Lady Death comes for me, I will welcome her with open arms, because Damon will be with her." She turned his head to her, and pressed a kiss on his forehead. "I am not afraid."  
  
He smiled, but his eyes remained dark. "Would Lucifera admit to being afraid of anything?"  
  
"My one fear is a vain one," she replied softly. "I am afraid of being forgotten." His gaze became more intense as he watched her. "If we had had children, we would have had continuity. Our grandchildren would have been told about us, as would their grandchildren. But, when I am gone, I am afraid we will be forgotten by the world."  
  
"You will not be forgotten," he said, lifting her hands to his lips. "I will ensure that your names are not forgotten, that your graves are not abandoned."  
  
"Morbid, my darling, very morbid," she teased, hiding how deeply she was touched under a veil of mockery. "How many other women have you made that promise to, I wonder?"  
  
As soon as the words left her mouth, she wished she could take them back. The only sign that he had heard her flippant remark was a slight tightening of his fingers on hers, but she knew how acute his hearing was. Deftly, he turned the conversation to other topics, and she responded with half her attention on him.  
  
It had been terribly tactless of her to mention death and other women in the same sentence, and she berated herself soundly for it. It had been six months since the death of Rachel Greenwood, daughter of the Earl of Greenwood. Rumour had it that the circumstances surrounding her death were shady and scandalous; the casket at her funeral had been closed, and no one had seen the body. It was a well-known fact that Miss Greenwood and that foreigner Hidaka had an understanding, and that their engagement was to have been announced at the end of the season.  
  
It was easy to forget the loss that he had suffered, when he attended parties and flirted politely with the women around him. She cursed herself again for her tactlessness, knowing that he hid his true emotions behind a pleasant mask. She had known him, in various guises, for longer than anyone else; she should have guarded her tongue.  
  
It took a moment for her to realize he had posed her a question and was waiting for a reply.  
  
"I'm sorry, darling, my mind was wandering. What did you ask me?" she said, flushing slightly.  
  
"I actually asked you what you were thinking about. I could tell you weren't paying any attention to me, since you agreed that Lady Wagnall's three daughters look like monkeys and that Lord Trumble is a bagpipe." He grinned at her discomfort.  
  
"You are a wicked tease, Ken," she muttered, rising from the bench. "I don't think I will tell you what I was thinking."  
  
He rose as well. "Please?" he asked, boyish charm fairly exuding from his eyes.  
  
"I should like to see you happy, Ken." Her voice was serious, all traces of teasing erased. "I hate to think of you wandering the earth, alone, until the end. I should like very much to see you mated." He lowered his head, breaking eye contact.  
  
"Rachel is dead."  
  
"I know, and I grieve at her loss, but you know as well as I do that your time together would have been brief. She would have died eventually, my darling." He raised his eyes to hers, some unnamed emotion rising within them. "You wouldn't have taken her as your mate for all eternity. You didn't love her that deeply."  
  
"Perhaps I didn't offer her the choice because I loved her." His voice was hard, haughty. For a moment, she was cowed. This was the voice of the hunter, the beast, the immortal who stood outside the reach of time. But beneath the flinty tones, she heard the recognition of the truth she had spoken.  
  
"However much you loved her, you didn't offer her the choice. I think you realized that she wouldn't have been strong enough. The things that you loved about her belonged to the light; I think that the weight of the shadows would have been too much for her. What you loved about her would have disappeared under them." When he said nothing, she continued. "Rachel was a lovely woman, but she would never have truly been a partner for you. Even though she accepted what you were, she would not have been happy living the life you do. I want you to find a partner…"  
  
"Like Damon was to you?" he asked in a normal tone, hiding the beast again.  
  
"Exactly. I should like to know that you have someone you can lean on when I am gone," she said firmly.  
  
He lifted both of her hands to his lips again. "I shall always endeavour to please you, my lady." She laughed, as he intended her to, and rested her hand on his arm again. "Shall we return to the ball, my lady?"  
  
"Lead the way, good sir."  
  
They made their way back into the ballroom, and were attacked almost at once by the group of debutantes that Lucy had jokingly nicknamed "The Hunters". The young girls flanked him, twittering and giggling and generally making spectacles of themselves. They were full of questions for him: had he been invited to Lady Ellis' musicale, would he be attending the fireworks at Vauxhall Garden the next night, had he attended the horse race the day before.  
  
The cacophony they created increased, as each girl raised her voice to be heard over her neighbour. Lucy could see the scandalized looks on the faces of the matrons nearby; this was a serious breach of manners on the part of the young ladies, and the matrons placed the blame at her feet. A Fairchild soiree was always the scene of a scandalous lack of manners. She was about to claim the rights of a hostess to spirit Ken away, when the majordomo announced a group of latecomers.  
  
"Sir Edwin Rutherford and company."  
  
Lucy grimaced internally, but kept her face carefully polite. Truth be told, she detested Rutherford, and had only issued him the invitation because she was certain he was still traveling. How like the man to return a week early and inflict his unctuous presence on Polite Society.  
  
He stood on the small platform at the entrance to the ballroom, a tall, painfully skinny man dressed all in black. His black hair had been pomaded, and added to the general air of greasiness he always gave off. The people with him were, for the most part, minor members of the nobility; none of them were of the higher echelons. But the other two…  
  
Ken drew his breath in sharply at the sight of the two foreigners in Rutherford's party.  
  
One was a stunningly beautiful woman, with dark hair piled ornately atop her head and fixed in place with lacquered skewers. Her skin was pale with powder, and her eyes were dark and unreadable. She wore a blood red kimono embroidered with silver flames, and a black obi.  
  
The other was a warrior.  
  
His clothing was very familiar to Ken. The young samurai, with his hakama and gi, daisho slipped through his sash. His scarlet hair was caught up in a warrior's topknot, but, rather than the traditional shaved forehead, he had jagged bangs that trailed down into two thin braids on either side of his face. His skin was pale as the moonlight that had recently illuminated Lucy's face, and his eyes…  
  
Unless it was some trick of the light, the samurai's eyes were the same violet as Rachel's.  
  
They contained none of her warmth or openness; indeed, they were hard and icy, but they were the same shade. A chill raised the hairs at the back of Ken's neck, seeing his dead lover's eyes in the face of a warrior.  
  
And the samurai's frozen eyes were trained directly on him… 


	3. 2 Laying a Trap

Chapter Two – Laying a Trap

Sweeping forward into the ballroom, Lord Rutherford and his party made their way towards Lucy and Ken.  The crowd fell silent and parted before them, drawing back like the tide.  

"Lady Fairchild, I was delighted to find your invitation waiting for me on my return to Mother England," Rutherford said, reaching for the hand Lucy slowly extended.  He lifted it to his lips, kissing the air above it.  As soon as was politely possible, she pulled it back, making a conscious effort not to rub it against the side of her dress.

"I was not sure if you would return in time, Lord Rutherford," she murmured, mentally damning the rules of polite society that had demanded she issue the invitation.

"For one of your soirees, Lady Fairchild, I would return from the depths of Hell itself.  As it was, I had only to return from the upper ring of Hell."  Rutherford paused to allow his hangers-on to twitter over his witticism.

"Is that so?" Lucy replied shortly.  

"The Orientals have absolutely no comprehension of civilized entertaining.  I vow, I have never spent time in a more barbaric place than Japan."  Ostensibly answering Lucy's question, Rutherford could not resist aiming a barb in Ken's direction.  "No wonder you were so eager to leave it behind, Hidaka."

"I sincerely doubt that you would understand my reasons for leaving, Rutherford."  Ken's voice, while utterly polite and composed, contained a thread of menace.  The hunter was closer to the surface than before. Though the guests did not understand what they were hearing, they nevertheless responded to it, shifting nervously and pressing closer to each other.

"I wonder that you bother traveling at all, Lord Rutherford, if you find everything so dull," Lucy said.  "If you wish for everything to be familiar, stay in England."

Rutherford smirked.  "If you wish me to remain close, Lady Fairchild, I shall endeavour to do so."  

"Aren't you going to introduce your guests?" she asked, pointedly.  

"Guests?" he said.  "I was under the impression that you knew everyone in my party."

"I was referring to your foreign guests, not the English ones."

"Them?" he said, amusement and amazement both apparent in his face.  "I didn't bring those two to England as my guests.  I brought them as my servants.  Surely you don't expect me to introduce my servants to you?"

"While they are in my house, Lord Rutherford, they are my guests, and, as such, I expect you to introduce them."  Her voice was polite but firm, steel under silk.

"Very well," he replied.  "The woman is called Takaoka, and the man is Fujimiya."  He gestured to the woman and she moved forward.  "I purchased them from a politician named Takatori.  Fujimiya is a warrior, and will be serving as my personal bodyguard."  He ran a hand over the woman's cheek.  "And Takaoka will be serving me in…a number of capacities."

There was no visible change in the woman's expression, but Ken could feel waves of revulsion emanating from her.

"Purchased them?" Lucy asked, surprised.  "They're human beings, Rutherford, not livestock."

"My dear Lady Fairchild," Rutherford drawled, "they're barely human…practically animals.  Their entire country is full of savages.  I think that the two of them will have a much better life in service here than they would have as 'freemen' over there."  The silence that followed his declaration was tense.

Lucy broke it by stepping closer to the woman Takaoka, and bowing.  "I am Lucy Fairchild.  You are very welcome in my home, Takaoka-san," she said quietly in Japanese.  "If there is anything that you require, please come to me directly."

Takaoka's eyes widened slightly, and she bowed in return.  "It is a pleasure to meet you, Fairchild-sama.  If this humble one can be of any service to you, she will endeavour to serve you to the best of her ability."

Throughout the exchange, Ken had kept his attention on the samurai Fujimiya.  When Lucy had spoken in Japanese, his eyes had also widened, and he had turned his gaze upon her.  She issued him the same greeting she had given Takaoka, and he responded by inclining his head deeply towards her.  He said nothing.

The majordomo took that moment to announce that a late supper was being served in a room adjacent to the ballroom.  Conversation picked up among the other guests as they began drifting away from the small group, intent on sampling the variety of exotic dishes Lucy stocked for her parties.  As hostess, it was Lucy's duty to attend to her guests, but she lingered for a moment.

"Purchasing a bodyguard, Rutherford?" Ken sneered.  "Are you so fearful for your safety in dear, civilized Mother England?"

"Perhaps England is not as free from savagery as most people would like to believe," Rutherford archly replied, his own sneer in full force.  "The mysterious death of an acquaintance before I left for my travels weighed heavily on my mind while I was gone."

"An acquaintance?" Ken asked, certain that he already knew of whom Rutherford spoke.

"Jeremiah Weaver," Rutherford said.  "Rumour has it he was torn to shreds by a pack of wild dogs near his country estate."  Ken raised an eyebrow.

"So, you purchased a samurai to protect you from roaming packs of dogs?  How demeaning for him.  Most dogs I know have little practice with swords.  But then, he may not be much of a warrior.  Perhaps dogs are all he can fight."  Ken watched Fujimiya from the corner of his eye.  The man's face remained impassive, but Ken had caught the flicker of anger in his eyes at the slur on his skills.  

"Perhaps I should arrange a demonstration for you, Hidaka," Rutherford replied.  "I've no doubt that this savage could whip you with any weapon you choose."  Ken struggled to keep satisfaction from showing in his face; Rutherford had walked neatly into his trap.

"Well, then, shall we say tomorrow?  Four o'clock, at Pierre's?"  They were both members at the exclusive fencing salon, though Ken was not seen there as often as Rutherford.  Pierre, the owner, should be able to offer them a private space to spar.

"Four o'clock suits me.  You might want to ensure that there is a physician nearby," Rutherford said as he turned to make his way into the dining room.  The group of hangers-on followed him, as did Takaoka.  Fujimiya gave Ken a piercing look and dropped his hand to his katana before he turned to follow his master.

"Ken, darling, do you know what you're doing?" Lucy asked in a worried tone.  "Rutherford seemed more oily than usual tonight; I'm sure he has something planned."

He lifted her hand to his lips and dropped a gentle kiss on the back of it.  "Everything will be fine, Lucy.  I will send a message to you when it's over."  He released her hand, and made a formal bow.  "I must leave you now."  He turned and strode swiftly out of the ballroom.

"Be careful," she whispered after his retreating form.  "Be sure you are around to keep your promise."

Ken had his coachman drop him off at Verderan's.  Verderan's was considered by the Fashionable World to be little more than a gentleman's club; a place where members met for drinks and light gambling.  To an extent, that was true.

The lower level of the four-story building was available to all members and their guests.  It contained the lounge and gaming tables, and was staffed with pretty maids and unobtrusive menservants.  The second floor, the salon, was not available to guests; there, members could spar and practice fencing techniques.  On occasion, duels had been fought there that had ended in death and exile.  On occasion.

The fourth floor was accessible only by the owner of the establishment.

It was the third floor that Ken was interested in that evening.  Only members of a certain standing had access to the third floor.  It was accessible from the inside, up the staircase from the second floor.  There was a second entrance, but few had the necessary ability to use it.

Ken walked quietly through the lounge, nodding to a few acquaintances, and swiftly made his way up the carpeted staircase.  He passed the open doors of the salon, hearing the clang of metal upon metal and heavy breathing that accompanied the sparring matches.  He sparred there on occasion, but only with other third floor members.  It was only fair.

The guards at the entrance to the staircase nodded their acknowledgement of his presence, and he walked slowly up the stairs.  The differences between this staircase and the first one he had climbed were subtle, but distinct.  The stairs were lavishly carpeted in shades of black and crimson; the walls were hung with a thick velveted crimson paper.  Candelabra were hung at various points along the staircase, expensive pieces covered with gold leaf and hanging crystals.  

He pushed aside the black velvet drape at the top of the stairs, revealing a lounge similar to the one on the first floor.  There were gaming tables surrounded by focused men, a long bar, and chairs set up close to each other for private conversation.  One difference was that there were women at the tables: women who were not there as servants.  Attired in lush silks and velvets, the women played as high at the tables as the men, drank as deeply, and fondled the help as outrageously.  The atmosphere of the third floor lounge was one of decadence and luxury, and an excess of both.

The main difference was that none of the members on the third floor could be mistaken for human.  The ethereal beauty of both the men and the women, their pale faces and hands, and the sense of barely contained strength and power emanating from them, would have given them away immediately had any mortal come upon them.  Even the servants on this level were creatures of the night, and were as capable as those they served at taking human life.

There were many people on the third floor that Ken could call acquaintances, but few who he would call friends.  The European vampire community was as closely knit as the aristocratic Upper Ten Thousand.  Most were suspicious of each other, but were doubly mistrustful of him.  If most were to be believed, he was the only Asian vampire they had ever come across.  He didn't fit into the canon of their supposed creation: he was an enigma among mysteries.  But, as with the humans who flocked around him at Lucy's, there were always those who were drawn to him because of his foreignness.  

"Master Hidaka," purred a smooth tenor voice to his left.  "A pleasure it is to have you here, truly."  The man who seemed to melt out of the shadows was of average height and nondescript appearance.  His uniform was black and crimson, like all the decoration in the room.

"Walter," he said.  "It's been a while."

"So has it been, master.  Were you this evening hoping for companionship or privacy?"  The convoluted patterns of his speech were Walter's trademark.  Host of the third floor, he had seen to the needs of members since Verderan's had been established during the regency of George IV, almost sixty years previously.  Save for the owner of the club, no one knew where Walter had come from or how old he was, but he performed his duties impeccably and discreetly, and no one had ever found any reason to complain about him.

"Privacy, I think, Walter.  Somewhere to brood."

"If me you would follow, master."  Walter led Ken down a darkened hallway, past closed doors.  Impassioned sounds drifted out from some of them; others were markedly silent.  After a moment, they turned a corner and stopped at a partially opened door.  Walter pushed the door open the rest of the way.  "Here you are, master.  Is it pleasing to you, the room?"

It was dark, but Ken could make out a chair and table before the fireplace, and the outlines of other chairs around the room.  He nodded.  "It's fine."

Walter entered and stoked the fire.  "Anything else, will you be requiring, master?" he asked.

"No, thank you, Walter.  Just quiet."

"Certainly, master."  Walter exited, closing the door behind him.

Ken threw his jacket on the back of the chair and sat down.  Nimble fingers made quick work of his cravat, and he tossed it onto the table beside him.  He leaned back in the chair, kicking his feet up onto a footstool, and tented his fingers together.  The flames in the fireplace danced and flickered; they were the only illumination in the room.  

_Rutherford._

Jeremiah Weaver had screamed out Edwin Rutherford's name as he was killed.  Squealed it, like a pig.  As he begged for mercy, he had laid the blame for his actions on Rutherford's door.

According to Weaver, Rutherford had reinstated the Society of the Dillettanti, a club started by Sir Francis Dashwood in 1740.  The original Society had disintegrated shortly after its induction, to be replaced in later years by the nefarious Hellfire Club.  The rumours surrounding the Club were extensive, if not completely accurate: tales of debauchery, drunken orgies, and black masses.  What Rutherford had done was to take the darkest elements of the Hellfire Club legend and put them into practice.  Satan worship, demon summoning, the rape and torture and slaying of maidens: anything that the human mind could conceivably attach to the Dark Arts, Rutherford was encouraging. 

Weaver had taken Rachel to use as the blood sacrifice in a ritual, using the pain of her rape and torture to summon a demon.  And he had, just not the type of demon he had expected.

By the time Ken returned to London, Rutherford, who had heard rumours of Weaver's abrupt and terrified flight to the country, had taken ship for Asia.  Ken had been biding his time in England for five months, awaiting his return.

And when he returned, he brought a samurai with him.  A samurai with crimson hair and violet eyes…  And he brought a beautiful woman as well; graceful and docile and…

_Clink._

Something hit a button on his waistcoat and landed in his lap.  His reverie interrupted, he looked down to see a shiny penny.

"It's payment," a low voice husked from the shadows to the right of the fireplace.  A woman stepped forward, light dancing on the two wineglasses and bottle in her hands.  Her dress was black velvet, clinging to her torso like a second skin and flaring out at the hips.  Thick coils of black hair wrapped around her head, accented by slender silver chains.

"Payment, Ver?" he asked, confused.  

"For your thoughts, _cher_, for your thoughts."  Madeleine Verderan, known by most as Ver, carried the bottle and glasses to the table beside Ken.  He rose and carried a nearby chair over, setting it down on the other side of the table.  He waited until she had seated herself before taking his seat again.  She kicked her feet up, placing them on his footstool.

"I doubt that my thoughts this evening are of any interest to anyone," he said, uncorking the bottle.  He didn't bother to ask how she had gotten in without him noticing.  She had forgotten more about the building than he had ever known; she knew every secret passage and hidden doorway.

He lifted one of the goblets and poured a generous glass, then passed it to Ver.  Their fingers brushed for a moment, cool and dry.  He picked up the remaining glass and filled it for himself.  She re-corked the bottle as he settled back in his chair.

"Your thoughts are always interesting, Ken.  It's one of the fringe benefits of associating with you," she said, before sipping delicately.  He smiled, and raised his glass.  The twin scents of wine and blood, seductive and sweet.  He held the liquid in his mouth for a moment before swallowing, savouring the contrast between aged wine and fresh blood.

"Charmain?" he asked.

"Mmm-hmm.  1775…my favourite vintage."  Ver took perverse pleasure in her collection of Charmain reds.  Production had stopped in 1775, after the mysterious deaths of the entire Charmain family.  Ken didn't regard it as coincidence that Ver had been born to darkness the same year…  Though younger than he was by nearly a century, Ver was far more vicious than he had ever been in his youth.

"And the other?"  His voice trailed off slightly, asking but not demanding an answer.

"A rather boorish visitor to these shores who wanted to do something unpleasant to me," she replied, laughter threaded through her voice.  "It would appear you are having something of an effect on me.  Evil men do taste better."

He laughed.  "And it's only taken you, what?  Ninety five years to come to that conclusion?"  

"All men taste good when they're dying…Evil ones just taste better," she said.  "Combine Charmain and evil blood…and my cup runneth over."  She frowned slightly.  "You won't deflect my questions that easily, o tricky one.  What put you in such a broody mood that you failed to notice me entering the room?"  
He sorted through a variety of truths and half-truths he could use to throw her off the scent, and settled for the second most accurate.  "I was just thinking about something Lucy said this evening."

"Ah, your little human friend."  Ver's voice was shaded with hint of disdain; she had no use for humans as anything other than food.  "What did the 'delightful' Lady Fairchild have to say that put you in such a mood?"

He decided to be forthright.  "She wants me to find a mate."

Ver arched a brow, surprised.  "Truly?  Were those her exact words?"  He nodded.  "Your human surprises me, _cher_.  What about your 'tragic loss'?"  Ver's opinion of Rachel Greenwood had been well known to Ken; the dislike between the two of them had been obvious the few times they had met.

"Please don't talk about her like that, Ver."  It was a request, but could easily have been mistaken for a command.  "Lucy said that she didn't think Rachel was the one for me.  And, though it pains me to admit it, I would have to agree with her."  He sighed.  "I had hoped that she was, but…"

"But nothing.  You don't need a mate, Ken."  She leaned slightly towards him.  "I'll tell you what you do need."  He turned his head to meet her gaze.  "You could use a good fuck."  He rolled his eyes at her and turned his gaze back to the fire.

"That's your answer to everything," he muttered, flushing slightly.  Ver had few inhibitions; she had survived for three years as a prostitute in Paris before she had been Changed.  Her sudden outbursts of vulgarity never failed to bring a blush to his cheeks, no matter that he often used the same phrases.  The contrast between her innocent face and the gutter argot she expressed herself with was too much for him.

"It's my answer to everything because it works," she said.  "You'd know that if you'd let go of your ridiculous human morals.  There are plenty of women here who would love to 'ease your pain'; men, too, if your taste swings that way."  She winked at him.  "No discrimination at Verderan's, _cher_."

He said nothing, and for a long moment they were quiet, staring into the fire.  She lifted her glass to her lips again, and drank deeply.  As she set the glass back down, she said, "The truth, Ken."

He should have known that she wouldn't be fooled with a half-truth.  "Rutherford has returned to England."

"Ahh."

"And he has brought two of my countrymen with him."

She cocked an eyebrow at him.  "Vampires?"

"No, they're both human," he said.  "But their presence disturbs me.  The man is a samurai, brought to be a bodyguard.  And the woman…"  He sipped at the wine, musing.  "Whatever the reason he brought the woman here, he means her no good."

Her gaze was intense.  "He brought a Japanese swordsman here?"  At his nod, she shook her head back and forth.  "He suspects you had a hand in Weaver's death?"

"Oh, I had more than a hand in it," he muttered.  She laughed.

"If I know you, you had both hands _and_ your fangs in it.  But seriously, Ken, why else would he bring a foreign swordsman into the picture?  You're known for your ability with a rapier and foils; no Englishman can beat you."

"And no one in this country has any knowledge of proper kenjutsu.  I've no doubt that he suspects me, but he can no more bring me up before the law than I can bring him up.  His crimes prevent him, as my crimes and nature prevent me."  He sighed.  "Whatever justice is taken on him, it will not be within the bounds of the law."

"Fuck the law," she spat.  "Law and revenge are two different things.  You don't want law," she said, her pale grey eyes catching his.  "You want revenge."

"I always believed that revenge was best achieved through law," he said, his voice quiet and strangely sad.

"One thing I learned on the streets of Paris is that the best revenge is revenge."  Her voice was low and deathly serious.  "Civilized law is nothing compared to the screams of the guilty.  It's nothing compared to the taste of your enemy's blood on your tongue, its heat on your skin.  If we are monsters, I for one will revel in my monstrosity."  She lifted the glass to her lips.  "But you've already tasted revenge, haven't you?"

"You mean Weaver."

"His screams were sweet, weren't they?"  He nodded.  "But Weaver wasn't enough.  You want Rutherford…his screams, his blood.  You want Rutherford to beg you for mercy you will not show."  Again, he nodded.  She smiled, feral and cruel.  "It's nice to see that you're one of us under that veneer of humanity you cling to."

He found a small part of him pitying the deceased Charmain family.  If Ver had been smiling like that the night she took her vengeance…

He rose silently, and shrugged his jacket on.  He looked down at her, at the way she coiled herself up in the oversized wingchair.  For a moment he admired the play of firelight upon the folds of black velvet and taut alabaster skin.  He rested his hand on her head, and she twisted her neck sinuously to look up at him.

"Is my daisho still here?" he asked quietly.  She nodded.  "Have it sent over to Pierre's before noon tomorrow."

"Expecting trouble, are we, _cher_?"  

"Trouble?" he laughed.  "Hardly that.  But I am anticipating something…interesting."

"I see.  I'll have it sent over."  She turned her attention back to her glass.  As she lifted it to her face, she inhaled deeply, savouring the scent.  "Good hunting, Ken."  The glass was tilted back, and she drank deep.

"Pleasant dreams, Ver," he murmured as he left the room.  Her throaty laughter seemed to follow him as the door closed and he made his way back out into the night.


	4. 3 Shadow Waking

Chapter Three – Shadow Waking

Warm.

Everything around him was warm and soft.

She was velvety heat under him, around him.  Her hands slipped over his back, fingers splayed wide, trailing warmth after them: ten individual lines of heat crisscrossing the muscles of his back.  She braced her feet on his legs, and clasped his hips between her thighs.  She matched him with every thrust, tightening her hold on him.

He buried his face at the junction of her neck and shoulder.  He could hear the blood rushing under the skin, could feel it under his lips.  Her heart was racing, thundering, calling to him.  Her blood was his for the taking, and they both knew it.  She was pleading for him to take it, her voice coming in sharp pants and husky cries.

He resisted the siren call of her blood, increasing the pace and sending them both closer to the edge.  She bucked underneath him, straining to keep him as deep within her as she could.  He overcame her attempts at containment, pulling back and thrusting deeper and deeper, gauging her response by her cries.

She stiffened abruptly, crying out and digging her nails into his shoulders.  He felt her inner muscles clench around him in an unbearably tight hold, and he lost control.  He buried himself deep within her, crying out her name, and felt himself explode.  The world went blank for a moment as he emptied himself into her.  When he returned to himself, she was still trembling beneath him, her hands limp on his back and a smile on her lips.

He withdrew from her slowly and moved to the side, enjoying a brief moment of masculine satisfaction at her flushed and sated expression.  He rested his head on her chest, listening intently to the gentling of her heart rate.  Her hands came up to his head, cradling it and tangling into his hair.  Her scent engulfed him, sweat and sex and sunlight; it was orange blossoms and satisfaction and blood, the bloodscent rising and increasing his hunger.

She was murmuring to him, but he couldn't understand what she was saying.  She never made much sense in the brief time between bliss and sleep.  He stroked his hand over her hip, willing sleep to come to her soon.  Her hands slowed in their exploration of the contours of his head, dropping to her sides.

He waited until she was completely asleep to slip from the bed and enter his dressing room.  With the door shut firmly behind him, he fell upon the bottle that rested in a bucket of ice.  He uncorked it with his teeth, spat the cork away, and chugged.

The blood was cold and slightly clumpy.  It was nowhere near as satisfying as her blood would have been; hot and sweet and flowing like wine.  But, weighing cold blood against an innocent's life, he would take clotted blood every time.  It eased the hunger that had built in him and took the edge off his need to hunt.

When the bottle was empty and he had erased all traces of his snack, he returned to the bedroom.  He was planning the most pleasant way to wake his companion up to repeat the evening's earlier events when he sensed…something.  The hairs on the back of his neck stood up sharply; he shivered.  And then he looked upon her.

She was sprawled across the bed, blood-drenched and motionless.  In a grotesque parody of invitation, her head was tilted coquettishly, her hands cupped her breasts, and her legs were spread wide.  Arcane symbols had been carved and burned into the soft white thighs, her belly and breasts.  Her entire body was a lattice of bloodied welts and cuts; her wrists and ankles were abraded, as if by rope.

He had been gone for less than five minutes.

"Koishii…"  His voice was harsh, broken, as he stumbled to the bed.  He clasped her body in his arms, stroking her hair and weeping blood-salt.  Her limbs were still warm, but the blood within them was silent, unresponsive.  He rocked back and forth, alternately pleading with her to return and cursing himself for leaving her.

**You didn't think you would know happiness, did you, Ken?**  The voice came from everywhere in the room, hauntingly familiar and bitter.  It swept in from all the shadows in the room, a tormenting whisper that cut into his despair like a serrated blade.  

**In all the world, no one deserves happiness less than you.  No one is more hated than you.  You taint everything you touch.**  The voice of a friend…an enemy.  Known from childhood, from adulthood, from death.

**I'm waiting for you in Hell.**

"How can Hell be worse than this?" he cried, clutching her cooling body…a body that twisted and writhed in his arms, shifting in form until the only thing recognizable as hers were the eyes…violet…beseeching…filled with hatred and betrayal…

Ken sat bolt upright in bed, sheets twisted and pillows tossed.  A feeling not unlike the cold sweats passed through him as the dream replayed in his mind.  He flung the covers away and huddled in the centre of the bed, knees drawn up protectively towards his chest.

Rachel.  Her body had been burned and cut, but she hadn't been laid out in such a vile position.  He knew that Weaver had raped her repeatedly during her captivity; the scents of blood and sex and fear had been strong on her.  Fear and pain had been her constant companions until the end.

And if the spectre was to be believed, Ken had brought them both to her.

He shied away from that line of thought, focusing instead on the remembered warmth of Rachel's body.  They had been lovers for the six months before her death, infrequent clandestine joinings that had filled his nights with heat and hunger.  She had been his willing pupil in the arts of love, quickly becoming his equal in creativity and libido.  He hoped that the memory of their lovemaking had sustained her somehow, but he doubted it.

Ken sighed, wrapping his arms around his legs and resting his chin on his knees.  Remembering Rachel's sweetness reminded his body that it had been over half a year since he had taken a lover, and that it had been even longer than that before Rachel.  Not because he was clinging to a human notion of morality, as Ver insisted, but because he was very selective.  He needed to be attracted on more than a merely physical level, and lately there had been a surfeit of beautiful bodies with empty heads.  He could no more imagine taking any of them to bed than he could imagine himself becoming human again.

And then there was Lucy…his beloved Lucy, whose mind was still sharp and engaging but whose body was succumbing to the ravages of time.  Their time together had been intentionally brief: a chance for her to seek, and him to offer, comfort without words.  They had shared a month, never intending it to continue further, and he had cherished the memory.  But friendship, while wonderful and fulfilling in many ways, couldn't substitute for the release of a physical relationship.

Rutherford had thrown an intriguing spike into his path with the introduction of Takaoka.  She was beautiful, and, more importantly, carried an air of familiarity.  Her beauty was a traditional kind, pale and unruffled, with delicate features and lush hair.  He had grown up among such women; his first lover had been one.  If she had a brain behind her mask of submissiveness, she had the potential to become quite interesting.

Thoughts of Takaoka led to thoughts of her companion.  If the woman was classically Japanese, Fujimiya was anything but.  Unusually tall, taller even than Ken, with near-colourless skin and flaming scarlet hair, the young samurai was an exotic among an already strikingly foreign people.  During their brief encounter at Lucy's ball, Ken had picked up on the whispers directed at Fujimiya.  Comments ranged from 'savage' to 'angelic', and anywhere in between.  His air of dangerous intensity and his clasp on the hilt of his katana had stirred both fear and desire in the hearts of the Fashionable.  

And if the form that Rachel's body had shifted to in his dream somewhat resembled Fujimiya, well, that didn't really mean anything.  

Ken hoped for his own sake that it didn't mean anything.  He had no irrational prejudices against what was considered by most to be a forbidden love: indeed, he taken several male lovers in his time.  However, he didn't think the young samurai would welcome the advances of a woman, let alone a man.  The wall of ice around him seemed deliberately cultivated to keep human contact at bay, and Ken had no doubt that he would defend his honour at the slightest hint of an insult.

Ken sighed again.  There was no time for the line of thought he found himself immersed in.  Sunlight peeked in through the curtains around his bed; he had gone to bed just as London was waking, and he judged it to be past noon already.  If he wanted to be at his best to face Fujimiya's blades, there were many things to be done beforehand.

He pulled the curtains back, allowing the watery English sunlight to dance across his bed.  It stung his eyes, and he hissed reflexively, squinting.  In almost two hundred years, he had not accustomed himself to introducing daylight slowly; he still clung to the habits of childhood, when morning was the start of every adventure.  The small shock of pain every morning was a subtle reminder to him that his adventures had already ended in sorrow; he was not human and he would never be human again.

He rose and rang the bell for Geraint.  His butler _cum_ valet appeared promptly; Ken harboured a secret suspicion that the man slept just outside the door, for he had never once rung the bell without Geraint appearing before it had finished ringing.  He was the epitome of 'English manservant', right down to his highly polished shoes, but had never shown anything but respect to his foreign master.  In fact, he knew much more than Ken would have liked about his master and his habits, but was so patently loyal that Ken couldn't bring himself to do anything about the situation.

Together, they selected his apparel for the day.  A pair of fashionable black trousers, cleverly tailored to allow maximum freedom of movement, were paired with a white linen shirt and black waistcoat.  A snowy white cravat, understated and starched to perfection, was accented with a single gold pin.  The tip of the pin glittered with a small ruby, as did his only ring.  A tailored jacket of black velvet topped of the ensemble, made by the same tailor who had crafted his pants.  It was a fortunate thing for the male vampire population of London that Emile Gagnon's love for tailoring had survived his Change; no one knew what a vampire required in clothing better than another Nightwalker.

"Will you be requiring sustenance this morning, master?" Geraint inquired blandly.  

"Just coffee, I think, Geraint.  I had a late supper."  The mugger he had dined on in an alley while returning from Verderan's had been enough to sustain him for several days at least.  Ken didn't think he could stomach the blandness of cold bovine blood after feeling the hot rush of the human version the night before.  Coffee, however, was something of a necessity.  He had grown to love the smell of it, the bitter taste.  In some ways, it reminded him of the first time he had tasted blood; how he had thought that he would never get used to it, that he would never enjoy feeding.

"I'll take it in the study, Geraint."  The manservant nodded, and turned to leave.  "Oh, and Geraint?" Ken said, picking up his walking stick.  "Have Cherry come to the study after you've brought the coffee."

The study was Ken's favourite room in the house.  The large room was furnished with solid oak and mahogany, accented everywhere with lacquered pieces in black and crimson.  The Oriental fad that had swept across Europe several decades previously had left a wealth of knickknacks and accent pieces that he had gladly collected.  Although most of them were as Oriental as the English notion of tea, they nevertheless gave the room a familiar feel.  If he hadn't been to his homeland in a century, at least in his study he could feel like a part of that homeland was with him.

The desk was one of his vainest purchases.  Nearly as wide as he was tall, it was positioned before the full length windows with a deep-backed black leather chair.  When the curtains were pulled open, the sunlight that poured into the study left him in shadow.  Whoever was on the other side of the desk would be blinded.  He had terrified a number of tradesmen before he realized it, but refused to move the desk on the off chance that he would someday need that edge.  Most of the time he kept the curtains drawn, and he knew that the rich red velvet provided an exotic backdrop.  He looked imposing at the desk.

It was vain, and he knew it.  He had stopped caring after a month.  It satisfied him to look his best when doing business with Europeans.  Considering that most of them were so far beneath him, while all the time thinking _he _was the savage, it pleased him to have them on edge.

He sat behind the desk, sipping idly at the coffee Geraint had provided and mentally running through his katas.  It had been years since he had taken up a real blade, and he was looking forward to the endeavour.

He heard the door open, a whisper of sound that a human ear might have missed, but he kept his eyes focused on the newspaper before him.  His quarry was more nervous than a cornered rabbit, and he had no desire to alarm her.

"You wished to see me?"  The girl stood before him, trembling with a nervousness that two years in his service had yet to quell.  He looked up slowly.

"I have a mission for you, Cherry," he said gently, willing her to trust him.  The girl was stick thin and twitchy, her dark brown hair tied back in two braids that she constantly fidgeted with.  

"Anything, my lord," she whispered, still unable to lift her eyes to look at him.

He frowned inside, being careful to keep his face blank.  "I don't like it when you call me 'my lord', Cherry.  You don't have to bow down to anyone."  Her subservience was in no way pleasing to him; she was like a dog that had been kicked so many times it no longer hoped for a pat.

"I'm sorry, Master Ken."  Stammered, nervous.  Head bent meekly.

"That's not much of an improvement, but I will let it pass."  The friendly timbre of his voice was encouraging, and he was pleased to see a little of the tension ease from her shoulders.  "Do you know where Edwin Rutherford lives?"

Her head popped up.  "Creepy Rutherford?  He lives in a posh brownstone at the edge of Riverglen Park, doesn't he?"  Cherry's knowledge of the dwellings of most of the Upper Ten Thousand was a valuable aspect of her employment in Ken's house.  He was surrounded by servants who knew many secrets; secrets he used to his advantage occasionally.

"Yes.  What I need for you to do, Cherry, is to set up watch nearby."  At sixteen, the child was a master in the art of skulduggery.  A child growing up on the streets of London had to be.

"He has two Japanese people in his house, and I want to keep an eye on them."  He thought that might spark her interest; he had often seen her examining the Oriental pieces in the study, and he didn't think she was looking at them with an eye to pawning them.  She had given up her earlier career readily upon being taken into his household.

"I don't want him to notice that he's being watched.  I know you still have connections on the street; I want you to use them."  The _practically_ reformed thief blushed slightly; she hadn't realized her master knew about her 'family ties'.  She looked into his eyes, though, and saw no accusation, no reprimand.  

She smiled, a fleeting expression that reached her eyes and lit them from within.  "I can do that."

Ken smiled back, happy to have eased her initial discomfort.  "Tell your friends to be careful.  Rutherford is vicious."  She nodded, and turned to go.  She made it to the door before turning back.

"Master Ken?" she asked.  "What does Creepy want with the Japanese people in his house?"  The hint of fear in her voice was heartbreaking; he knew that she already had a fair notion of what Rutherford wanted from the strangers.  Rage burned in him at a world that taught its children cruelty from the cradle.

"I don't know, Cherry.  But I do know that I don't want him to do it, whatever it is."  She nodded, and turned to leave again.  "And Cherry?"  She paused.  "Be careful yourself.  If he catches you and connects you to me, I don't know how he'll react."  Ver would laugh herself sick if she could see him, worrying about the fate of one small housemaid he had lifted from the gutter.  

That got a reaction from Cherry.  She turned to face him, stuck her hand on her hip, and said, "Teach your granny to suck eggs, Master Ken.  The only person who ever caught me was you."  She was gone before Ken could say anymore, a small blur that whipped out the door and disappeared down the hall.  

'What bizarre expressions the English use,' he thought to himself, trying to shake the feeling that her words were ill-chosen.  He preferred not to tempt fate by stating absolutes.  If he could catch her, then there were surely others in the world who could do so.  He hoped that Rutherford would not be one of them.

He dallied at his desk until half past two, and then summoned his carriage to take him to Pierre's.  The ride was fairly lengthy, taking him from the heart of Fashionable London to the outskirts.  Most members felt that trip was worth it; for Pierre's skill and teachings, most would have been willing to travel for hours.  The rustic atmosphere of the salon carried with it the sensation of travelling back in time, of a journey to a time when men lived by the sword instead of merely exercising with it.

Ken stepped down from the coach and approached the main building.  As soon as he walked through the doors, he was assailed by a feeling of nostalgia.  He had learned Western swordsmanship in a place very similar, in a villa in Italy over a century before.  There, his lessons had been taught by moonlight, under the instruction of a granite-faced Italian vampire who was convinced that the touch of the sun equalled death.  There, too, he had learned languages to accompany the sword: French, Italian, English.  

He could hear the sounds of sparring from various rooms, and the sounds of instruction.  In some cases, it came with words; in others, physical reprimand.  He was uninterested in the occupants, though.  He came to spar with Pierre, and no one else.

The largest of the salons was empty, as he had requested in the note he sent the previous evening.  He entered, removed his jacket while closing the door, and threw it on one of the small tables that lined the perimeter of the room.  He chose a foil from the rack, and began a series of warming up exercises, stretching his muscles and attuning his senses to the shifts of _ki_.  

After fifteen minutes had passed, he could sense a strong presence coming towards him.  He lowered his blade and faced the door.  There was a sharp knock, and Pierre entered.  He was a distinguished man, in his mid-fifties, with salt and pepper hair and a body that belied his age.  He was carrying a bundle that he deposited on a table, and Ken tossed him a foil.  He said nothing, merely taking up the beginning stance across from Ken.

For half an hour they sparred.  They said nothing.  The only sound in the room was the clang of metal upon metal, and the sound of measured breathing.  At the half hour point, they both stepped back and saluted each other with their blades.  To a casual observer, it might appear to be a stalemate.  The number of hits taken by each was minimal; the form of both was perfection. 

Pierre replaced their foils in the rack, and returned to the bundle on the table.  He lifted it up and carried it over to Ken, holding it out as if it were an offering.  And indeed it was.  

He took the silk wrapped bundle from Pierre's hands almost reverently.  The weight of his daisho, the perfectly matched katana and wakizashi, was at once achingly familiar and strangely foreign.  For years, his only true weapons had been his hands and fangs, and he had become accustomed to the visceral feel of flesh shredding under his fingers.  The exercises he performed with Western foils were merely for show, entertaining but not complex enough to present a challenge.

He laid the daisho on the small table next to the window, conscious that Pierre was behind him, trying to rein in his curiosity.  In the four years Ken had attended his salon, Pierre had never asked him about Japanese kenjutsu, but his love of blade work, in any form, was patently obvious.  Ken angled his body slightly, allowing the fencing master a better view.

He untied the red cord, revelling in the feel of the braided silk under his fingers.  The cord fell away, and the black silk parted.  His black wrist guards rested upon the matched sheaths, and he lifted them up.  He pushed his sleeves back and fastened the guards to his wrists, re-accustoming himself to the feel of the thin cord between his fingers.  The guards moved with his hands, at once both stiff enough to protect and flexible enough not to hinder movement.

A sudden flaring in the _ki_ in the building had him pulling out the sash from beneath the swords and tying it on.  He stuck the swords through the sash, and turned to face the door.  Pierre followed his movements, turning at the same time.  Thus, they were prepared as Edwin Rutherford pushed the door opened and entered, his retinue following closely behind.  

As he had the night before, Fujimiya followed several paces behind.  Once again, his eyes were locked on Ken, chips of violet ice that burned with frozen fire.  The salon was silent.


	5. 4 Red Leaves Falling

Chapter Four – Red Leaves Falling

Sir Edwin Rutherford had spent the night inflicting pain on a woman.  Immense amounts of pain.  The whole night long.

There was nothing about his appearance to suggest his evening had consisted of anything more than conventional debauchery.  His clothes were impeccable as usual; his countenance was clear.  If there were faint lines of dissipation on his face, well, he was no different from any other nobleman of his day.  A gentleman gambled and caroused and seduced opera dancers; it wasn't a lucrative career, but it had certain perks.

Rutherford had not been engaged in anything so acceptable as conventional debauchery.  Ken could smell it.

Imperceptible to the others in the room was a faint miasma of darkness that clung to him.  He smelled of sex and blood and a pervading scent of pleasure mixed with pain.  Ken recognized the bloodscent as Takaoka's: a mix of plum blossoms, powder, and a curious hint of ink.  He tightened his grip on the hilt of his katana, and then consciously relaxed it.

'Tension increases tension,' he reminded himself.  'Stay calm.'  Whatever Rutherford had done to the woman, it was done and could not be changed; the future had yet to be decided.  If he couldn't master his emotion for long enough to get through the duel, he had no hope of taking Rutherford down.

Rutherford started off with a customary sneer.  "So, you did show up, Hidaka.  I was convinced you'd turn tail and run when confronted with a real fight."  His group of hangers-on chuckled.

"It would take more than a cut-rate hiresword to make me turn, Rutherford," Ken returned sharply.  "And what reason could I have for running?  I doubt this ronin has any real skill – it doesn't take much to impress an Englishman."  He wished idly for a crowd of followers to marvel at his wit, but had to make do with Pierre's stoic support.

"Or an Englishwoman."  Rutherford let the provocative statement dangle before Ken, almost daring him to attack.  Ken couldn't be sure if he was referring to Rachel or to Lucy.  He decided it didn't matter who it was aimed at; the man was impugning the honour of a friend.

"Looked at _en masse_, you English are easily impressed by the exotic," he drawled, copying Rutherford's affected tones.  "There are, however, a select few who strive to understand things that are foreign, rather than simply grabbing whatever seems… attractive."  He drew out the last word, shading it with nuances and inflections he knew would be irresistible.  

"And Lucy Fairchild is one of those select few?" Rutherford asked, taking the bait.  

Ken allowed himself a brief internal smirk.  How the man had managed to control a secret society for so long was incomprehensible.  To those who knew how to read him, he was an unsealed scroll.

"Lady Fairchild has an Eastern heart in a Western body.  She seeks knowledge and communication for the joy of them, not because she stands to gain from them."  Perhaps that was overstating Lucy's situation slightly, but he didn't think she'd take offence.  

The smile that made its way across Rutherford's face made Ken rethink his earlier position.  "Oh, I take joy in my latest acquisitions, Hidaka," he purred.  "Great joy.  And once Fujimiya here beats that self-righteous smirk off your face, my pleasure will know no bounds."  He was practically rubbing his hands together with glee.

Ken shrugged, feigning nonchalance.  "That remains to be seen, Rutherford."  And he stepped into the centre of the ring.

At a gesture from Rutherford, Fujimiya stepped forward.  His gaze on Ken was intense, forceful.  He appeared to have eyes for nothing else.

The similarities between the two of them were disconcerting.  As if they were statuettes cast from the same mould, they faced each other in a mirror image stance; two warrior figures, identical in essentials but dressed in the clothes of differing cultures.  

Fujimiya wore the clothing of the samurai, unchanged over the course of Ken's lifetime.  His hakama were a dark grey, as were his tabi.  His yukata was crisply white in contrast to the black gi, which did so much to emphasize the strangeness of his colouring.  Next to the black cotton, his skin seemed much paler, his hair more obscenely red; it was like a waterfall of blood trailing down his back.  The two small braids at his temples swayed slightly; otherwise, he was motionless.

Ken, by contrast, was dressed in the most modern of haute couture.  His trousers were form fitting, as was his waistcoat.  The sleeves of his linen shirt billowed about his arms, ending in tight cuffs that were trimmed with lace.  He wore shoes rather than sandals, and his hair was trimmed in the latest English fashion.  In point of fact, the sight of such a paragon of Western fashion carrying two Japanese swords might have been laughable.  

Might have been…until one looked into his eyes, and saw a killer staring back.

For a full minute, they stared at each other.  Falling into position, measuring one's _ki_ against the enemy.  Ken felt a hint of amusement at the way they were mirroring each other.  They both had their eyes narrowed in the same manner; the same slight flare to the nostrils.  Heads erect, shoulders lowered, legs strong.  He would wager that Fujimiya was perhaps as conversant with the works of Miyamoto Musashi as he himself was.  

But, he reminded himself, Fujimiya hadn't had two centuries to ponder over Musashi's texts.  The samurai couldn't be much over twenty; even if he had been studying kenjutsu since the moment of his birth, there was no way he could have mastered enough of it to cause Ken any serious worry.

They simultaneously dropped into defensive postures: tension flared and hands hovered over hilts.  As Ken sensed the subtle shift in the other man's _ki_ that signalled an attack, he thrust forward, feinting towards Fujimiya's face with the point of his katana.  Fujimiya dashed the blade to Ken's right, following through as if to stab through Ken's eye.  

Except that Ken was no longer there.

Like a ripple in a pool of water, Ken moved sideways, bringing his katana up from under Fujimiya's.  He forced the blade up, leaving Fujimiya's chest exposed.  The samurai turned the move to his advantage: he used the momentum from the forced swing to propel his counterattack, which was to bring his katana down on Ken's left shoulder.  Ken parried the attack, noting the force behind the blow.  Fujimiya had no expression at all on his face, but there was tightly controlled anger behind his every move.

They separated and began circling each other.  The only sounds were the rustling of cloth and occasional scuff of a shoe on the wooden floor.  Fujimiya was the first to break the silence.

"Dog of the shogun," he muttered, almost under his breath.  Once again, Ken had his preternatural senses to thank for overhearing what was not intended for his ears.  Even if it made little sense.

What?" he said, confused.  Of all the insults he expected to receive at the hands of a warrior, that was one he had never imagined.

"You may have perfect technique, but no shogun's lapdog will subdue me."  Fujimiya's voice was as cold as his eyes.

"I think perhaps you have me mistaken for someone else," Ken said, no more enlightened than he had been at the beginning.  He was acutely aware of their audience; Rutherford's entourage was unimpressed by the seeming inaction of the duellists and were getting restless.

"My employer says you've been here for four years, and you were in another European country before."  There was an accusation in Fujimiya's eyes that seemed to burn its way under Ken's skin.  "No one left the country before the War except on the express orders of the shogun."  His blade dropped to a lower attitude; his arm crossed over his chest.  "What can that make you but the dog of a tyrant?"

The last was hissed as he launched into a swift attack.  Instead of cutting at him as Ken half expected, he lunged in with his body and kept his katana close.  As his shoulder slammed into Ken's chest, he brought the blade up and cut towards Ken's neck.  It was a decisive cut; his intention was pure.  If successful, Ken's head and shoulders would have parted company.

The clatter of metal on metal was nearly deafening.  Ken's katana had come up between them, and he thrust Fujimiya's blade back.  Rather than simply parrying the blow with the strength of his arms, Ken used his legs; he thrust forward from the floor, making good use of the solid purchase he had gained in the moment before Fujimiya attacked.

For a moment, as their blades entangled, their faces were startlingly close.  "If all you can speak are idiocies, maybe it's better that you keep your mouth shut," Ken hissed back, and was rewarded with a slight narrowing of the samurai's eyes.  This was better than dancing, better than running.  This was as elemental as breathing or feeding or fucking.  If they had been born with swords sprouting from their hands, they could not have used them more naturally; they could not have been a greater extension of their arms. 

Fujimiya laughed shortly as he pulled back.  "Does hearing the truth pain you?" he asked, a hint of mockery apparent under the seemingly emotionless exterior.  They began circling each other again, but there was something more primitive about it the second time.  It was as if they were half-tamed animals; there was a fluidity to their movements that spoke of wild places and savage natures.

"Does making assumptions about a countryman in a foreign land please you?" Ken responded, allowing a hint of condescension to creep into his voice.  "I refuse to take seriously the criticism of a muzzled wolf.  What wild animal would willingly put its neck in a leash?"  

Without waiting for a response, he renewed his attack against the samurai.  He sliced towards him with the intent of tangling their blades, fixing them together so that they would not easily separate.  As they did, Ken realized he had been mistaken about Fujimiya.

The man was actually holding back against him.  He was not fighting at full strength.

Moving with a speed no human had a right to possess, Fujimiya broke away from Ken's blade.  "Which one of us makes assumptions now, dog?"  On the sidelines, Rutherford laughed suddenly.  Ken had been so intent on Fujimiya that he couldn't tell if it had been Fujimiya's comment or one of the hangers-on who had incited the laughter.  The entire conversation had been in Japanese, but Ken couldn't be sure that Rutherford didn't understand enough of the language to follow along.

Then he didn't have time to think at all.

Fujimiya launched a series of silent, lightning-quick attacks in rapid succession, leaving Ken no choice but to defend himself.  Although he wasn't actually exerting himself to full capability, Ken was conscious of strain in muscles that hadn't been used seriously in over a century.  

"I have a name, you know," Ken remarked conversationally, parrying Ran's blade aside as if it were an errant branch on a wooded path.  "I've always thought it good to know the name of a person you hate.  It makes it so much more personal."

"I am not concerned with your name," Ran snarled, frustration beginning to show through his impassive mask.  None of his attacks were getting anywhere.

"Well, I am concerned with yours, Fujimiya-san."  Ken dodged a particularly vicious strike, following through to ram his blade against the other man's side.  Almost.  "Aside from my travelling in Europe, I can't conceive of anything I've done to offend you.  Your family name is unfamiliar to me."  That was the crux of it; Ken had no idea who the samurai was or why he bore such a tangible hatred for him.

Fujimiya sneered.  "Your family's name has always been dark.  Hidakas are all liars and cheats; they have been since the Tokugawas took power."  

"Again you speak and again you say nothing.  I know what reason your owner has to hate me, but you spew only wind."  Ken was pleased to see the narrowing of Fujimiya's eyes at the insult.  "If I have caused you offence, I apologize."

The samurai redoubled his attack.  "You offend me with every breath you take in freedom.  When there are people who suffered through the Bakumatsu, who continue to suffer into the Meiji, I can't forgive someone who escaped.  You live here like a corrupt politician, in your English house with your English friends, while the honour of our country disappears."  A moving speech: three sentences that ran together to spell out a young man's mistaken hatred.  Everything became clear to Ken.

Fujimiya's hands were slender, with long fingers and blunt nails.  They were a painter's hands: a musician's.  No one looking at those hands would imagine them capable of wielding the tools of death.  No one would picture them spattered with blood and gore.  But the scent of old blood still clung to him; it was a faint hint of copper under the smell of sandalwood.  No human would consciously smell it, but the unconscious recognized it and shied away.

Fujimiya had fought on the side of the revolutionaries.  He had been covered in the blood of those loyal to the shogun, often enough that the scent was a permanent part of him.  And while Ken could not understand why an Ishin would willingly follow an Englishman, he could understand the dark place the young man's bitterness and anger stemmed from.

But…

"There are many things you do not know, Fujimiya-san," he said, ducking beneath the other man's blade.  "I think you understand the kind of force you serve.  How is it you can't forgive me for my supposed crime, but can stand by while a mongrel desecrates a delicate flower?"   For Rutherford's abuse of Takaoka was nothing less than desecration.  If the samurai were capable of turning his back on a countrywoman in distress, Ken would have every right to question the man's honour.

"Perhaps the flower of which you speak is stronger than it appears," Fujimiya offered, thrusting forward.  "Perhaps it is the sapling of a maple, rather than a sprig of sakura."  He closed in on Ken, his empty left hand dropping towards his wakizashi.  Ken's eyes narrowed.

"Perhaps the mighty samurai is not as honourable as he pretends to be," he said, his own hand dropping the hilt of his short sword.  "I weary of this."

That was the only warning he gave.  

Years of practice enabled him to completely mask his _ki_, hiding his true intention from Fujimiya.  He appeared to be undecided about his attack, vulnerable.  It looked like he was exposing a weakness in his personal guard.  Fujimiya lunged in to attack him through that gap.  

But what had appeared to be a weakness was actually the bait in a trap.  

Ken suddenly retaliated, beating the point of Fujimiya's katana down suddenly.  Because he had not given any indication of his approach, the samurai had no way to combat the move.  The point of his sword was jarred downward.  Ken followed the Red Leaves manoeuvre with a broad sweep of his blade.  He managed to strike Fujimiya's hands, arms, and head several times with the single blow.  However, he had reversed his blade so that Fujimiya was hit with the flat, rather than the cutting edge.  And he had checked his strength enough to allow the other man to maintain his grip on the weapon.  None of the onlookers would even have been able to follow the path of the cut; none of them realized the samurai had been touched.  But Ken could see the recognition of his skill in Fujimiya's eyes, the grudging admiration of his talent with a blade.

They drew apart and sheathed their weapons.  Once again the salon was silent.

"Well, that was almost entertaining," Ken said, reluctantly drawing his eyes away from Fujimiya.  His gaze fell on Rutherford, who looked somewhat upset.  "As I said, Rutherford, I don't really have much to fear from a ronin."

Rutherford's expression was peculiar…a mix of anger and…desire?  Want was twinned with hate, admiration with disgust.  Before Ken could thoroughly sort out the jumble of emotions on the nobleman's face, Rutherford turned and left the room, trailing lackeys behind him like a cloak.

"Ran."  Chaos.  The whisper of sound was meant only for Ken's ears, too quiet for anyone else to hear.  The samurai did not turn to look at Ken; his gaze was fixed on his master's back.  "My name is Ran."  Before Ken could say anything, he was gone.

Pierre's presence at his side was all that kept Ken from chasing after him.  The swordmaster stood beside him, his expression one of awe and wonder.  "May I say, sir, that I have never in all my life seen swordsmanship like that.  It's humbling.  How long have you studied to achieve such skill?"

"A lifetime, Pierre.  A lifetime or two."  

He laid his daisho on the table, caught up in thought.  _My skills were honed by time; his were honed by war.  If I were mortal, I don't think I would have beaten him.  And if he were Changed…I don't think anything would be able to stop him._  The thought was distressing.

"I think I'll go for a stroll, Pierre," he said, suddenly wanting to be alone with his thoughts and free of the restraints of society.  The wooded areas that surrounded the salon were ideal for the purpose.  Without waiting to hear the man's response, he headed towards the exit.

The sound of the forest's stillness enveloped him as soon as he passed through the first thicket.  With every step, he let his humanity slip away, shedding rules and obligations and practiced behaviour like snakeskin.  His stride lengthened into a lope, into a canter, moving through all the paces until he was running flat out, with a speed no human could match.

He didn't care where he ended up, as long as he could keep running.  In the back of his mind, though, he was aware of the need to remain fairly close to the salon, and so he mapped his route out, broad looping patterns through the forest.  He didn't worry overly much about being seen; the human eye was incapable of registering him as anything other than a blur: a shadow where no shadow should be.

_Hurry up, Kase.  We'll never get there if you're so slow!_  A childish voice cut through his thoughts.

_I'm not slow!  You're too fast!  _Anger…frustration.  _Why do you have to run all the time?_

_Running's better than walking, dummy.  Why do you think horses run?  Or foxes?  _Pure joy in movement…love of all things physical.

_Are you saying you're a horse?  Neigh, neigh, neigh.  _Mockery…good-natured, but with darkness lurking behind…

_Shut up, that's not what I meant!  _The childish voice turned angry, upset at the companion's wilful misunderstanding…

_Ken is a horse…Ken is a horse… _Both voices faded into the recesses of his mind.

He collapsed in the centre of a sun-dappled glen.  He lay on his back, panting, arm thrown over his eyes to block out the sun.

Was it only the morning's dream that brought Kase's remembered voice to his mind?  Or had the duel with Ran unlocked the vault he had sealed so long ago?

Sparring with Kase had never been like that; like dancing…fucking.  Every movement had been perfection, Ran's body joining his in rhythm, creating an auditory poem of metal and breath.  With Kase, there had always been awkwardness; Kase's skill had never compared to Ken's, and the difference had always been apparent.

He didn't want to think of his childhood best friend.  Dredging up the past could only bring pain, and he was tired.  Ken would never have claimed that he didn't deserve to suffer for the actions of his earlier life, but there was only so much a man could endure.  He had accepted the deaths of friends, the death of a lover, with as much stoicism as he could muster, and his emotions were tangled and sore.

He didn't want to believe he tainted everything he held dear.

He turned his thoughts back to the duel.  Most of Rutherford's cronies had paid scant attention to the fight, gossiping amongst themselves and toadying up to Rutherford.  None of them were known for possessing any fencing ability, so naturally their interest was minimal.  If they bothered to watch the duellists at all, their attention had been evenly divided between Ken and Ran.

One of them, though, had been focused completely on Ken.

There was nothing that stood out about his appearance, nothing that was memorable.  He was young, barely into adulthood, with the lanky body and sense of awkwardness that Ken associated with an English adolescence.  His hair was a mousy shade of brown and scraped back from his face in an attempt at the current fashion.  His face was narrow with a trace of baby-pudginess, but the bones were good.  He would likely mature into a fairly handsome man, given time.

The hunger clawing behind his eyes as he had watched Ken had been disturbing.  From the moment Rutherford's party had entered the room, he had his gaze locked on Ken.  Ken had felt the hazel eyes following his every movement, gauging his abilities.  Ken couldn't recall any Westerner watching him like that before, and he was disturbed by it.

I don't know what he wants from me, this man-child of another race.  Is it something within my power to give?  What is his connection to Rutherford?

He made a mental note to have Cherry keep track of the people going in and out of Rutherford's house.  If he passed along his description, as minimal as it was, Cherry would be able to ferret out who the young man was.

He caught himself eyeing the wildlife and licking his lips.  The hunger he had thought appeased the evening before was back with a vengeance.  As Ver would say, the fight had left him wanting to feed or fuck, and, as he had no current bedwarmer, feed he would.  He returned to the salon long enough to scrawl out a quick note to Lucy, and then summoned his carriage.  He wasn't dressed for a typical evening's entertainment, but it would be fine for what he had in mind.  Ver could be v_ery _accommodating sometimes.

Notes:

Thank you everyone who stuck around and waited for me to finish this chapter.  The past month has really sucked, and I felt really horrible about not getting it done according to my schedule.  The way it was supposed to work was: 1 chapter every 2 weeks, not 1 chapter a month.  I'm really sorry about that.

I'm still beta-reader-less, so…apologies for grammatical booboos.  If anyone wants the job, just let me know, and I will begin composing sonnets in your honour.  If there are any complaints, please email me at skandrae@hotmail.com - coincidentally, the same address you can address praise to if you so desire.  ^_^

On the upside, I did get a fabulous haircut two weeks ago…I look rather funky if I do say so myself.  One up, two down…ah well.  I'm diving right in to Chapter 5…


	6. 5 A Dark Angel Laments

Chapter 5 – A Dark Angel Laments

"You want to _what_?"

The shocked expression on Ver's face prompted Ken to laugh.  In all the years of their acquaintance, he had rarely been able to put her at _point non plus_, and the few occasions where he had were cherished.

"You heard me," he said.

It was dark inside Ver's apartments.  Thick curtains had been drawn over every window and candles burned.  If Ken had not been aware that it was late afternoon, he would have been certain that it was night: Ver shared the European belief that sunlight was repugnant.  And, as she had reminded him, she stayed up much later into the mornings than he did.  She immensely disliked being woken up by anyone, even her _cher ami._  Swathed in a wrapper of midnight blue silk, hair tumbling about her face, she had ushered him into her sitting room.  And he had proceeded to shock her as he never had before.

Ver dropped into a chair and stared at him.  "You're saying that you, friend of human sheep, lover of all things mortal, want to go hunting?"  To say she was astonished was an understatement.  He nodded.

"And, not only do you want to hunt, you want to use me as bait?"  He nodded again.  She reached for the bottle of wine on the table.  "I think perhaps you should tell me what prompted this urge you have for hunting."  She filled the glass beside her with a generous portion, and pushed it towards him.

"You know how I spent my afternoon," he said, handing her a second glass.  She nodded.  "It left me feeling… empty."  

"Empty?  How so, _cher_?"  Her eyes were bright, curious.  It was rare for him to admit to his deepest feelings.  Her hand, bottle tilted but not pouring, hovered over the glass.  

"He was good."  Admitting it was somehow painful, he thought, taking a deep swig.  Charmain Red, 1775, uncut by anything.  

"The samurai?" she asked, finally tilting the bottle enough to pour herself a glass.

"Mmmhmm," he murmured through the wine.  He swallowed, savouring the taste, and continued.  "Fujimiya.  He's possibly the best I've ever seen."

She arched a sceptical brow.  "Better than you?"

"If we were on equal footing…yes, better than me."

Ver leaned back in her chair, coiling her bare feet up underneath her.  "Tell me about him.  His appearance, his manner.  Tell me what has you so wound up."

It was his turn to arch an eyebrow in her direction.  "What does his appearance matter?"

"_You_ woke _me_ up.  Satisfy my curiosity."  Like a child preparing for a bedtime story, she propped her chin on her knees, and wrapped her arms around her legs.  The wineglass was an incongruous touch that detracted from the appearance of total innocence.  Ken settled back in his own chair and summoned an image of the samurai in his mind.

"He's tall; taller than me.  Lean."  They were weak words to describe him.  Tall couldn't explain the way he had made Ken feel small.  Lean couldn't begin to describe a body that seemed hewn from living stone: hard and fluid at once.  

"That describes half of Europe.  Give me more," Ver demanded.

"He doesn't look like most Japanese people.  For one thing, his hair is red."  He paused, reminiscing.  "We would have called it a demon mark when I was growing up.  Hair like fire… And his eyes are strange…"

He could almost see Ver's ears perk up, like a fox hunting a mouse.  "Strange…how?" she asked.  

"They're the proper shape, but they're…violet.  Like…"  He didn't want to say it, didn't want to bring that name into the conversation.  He was tired of blaming himself for her death, tired of the way Ver spoke of her.  

Ver, naturally, had no such compunctions.  "Like _la petite _Greenwood?"  He nodded.  "Intriguing," she murmured.  He waited for more, but she left that line of questioning.  "What else?"

Ken smiled.  "Well, for one thing, he hates me."

"Mmm…I like him already, I think," she said, flashing him a smirk.  Their own relationship had had a similarly rocky beginning, owing to misconceptions on both sides.  

He wasn't amused, though.  "He thinks I betrayed my country by fleeing during the war.  I think he fought against the shogun: one of the revolutionaries.  As I can't exactly explain that I left Japan a century ago, I can't really see a way to sort out that misunderstanding."  Fujimiya's misconception was irritating in a way that Ken couldn't begin to explain.  Leaving Japan had been his only option so long ago, and he hadn't taken it willingly.  Fujimiya's perception of his actions, no matter how inaccurate, was a kind of slap to his honour.  

"Correct me if I'm mistaken, _cher_, but weren't the revolutionaries opposed to contact with Western culture?  I thought Perry's actions in 'fifty-four had the country thrown into confusion?"

Ken blinked, momentarily silenced by Ver's concise summation of the situation.  He sometimes forgot that, while she claimed to be little more than an expensive bartender, she had a gift for all things political, and that she observed politics on a global stage.  "That was my understanding as well," he said.

"So what would a supporter of the revolution be doing working for Rutherford?" she asked, head tilted.  She took a delicate sip of the wine.

"My question exactly.  He didn't answer when I asked."  It still rankled with him, that Fujimiya had proven immune to his taunting.  Ken had spent decades working on his baiting skills, only to gain no reaction from the mortal.  Ver read some of his frustration in his tone, and smirked again.  "Even more intriguing," she murmured into her glass.

"There's more," he continued, becoming utterly serious.  "Rutherford was torturing the woman last night."

Ver tensed slightly in her chair, her posture altering somewhat.  "Torturing?"  Ken had been sure that would catch her attention.

"He reeked of blood and pain.  Hers."  Again he could smell her blood, the mix of plum blossoms, powder and ink.  The way it clung to Rutherford's hands, his skin.

"Did Fujimiya react to that?"

"Only to imply that Takaoka could stand it.  He compared her to a sturdy tree rather than a flower.  It was very roundabout, deflective."  As if Fujimiya were saying it was her choice to be there, that she knew what she was doing.  Strange…

"Who won?" she asked, drawing her attention back to their original topic.

"We called it a draw.  Only Fujimiya knows I won."  She snorted, rolling her eyes at his easy bravado.  He continued.  "I used a move he couldn't know, but not with enough force to disarm him.  He was stunned but not immobilized."

"Was that wise?"  Although Ver knew very little about sword arts, she knew a lot about showing strength.  She told him once that she never left an enemy standing behind her; death was the only thing that ensured she was protected.

"I didn't feel like showing Rutherford my true strength.  And Ran will likely come up with a countermove before we meet again.  Like I said, he's good."  Saying he was good wasn't enough, though.  That was like saying the sun was warm, or the snow cold.  Pointing out the obvious wasn't enough.

"Ran?" she said, quirking her brow up again.  He winced at the slip he had made.

"His first name."

"You're on a first name basis already?  My, my."  Somehow she managed to make him blush.  It was something in the tone of her voice, the twinkle in her eye.

"I think I won some grudging respect," he muttered, idly wishing that _she_ would show him some respect.  The fact that he was a century older than her held very little weight in the respect department.  She ignored him.

"A pretty name…Ran."  She rolled it off her tongue, giving it inflections that it shouldn't have been possible to have.  She turned it into a three-syllable word, drawn out like the last echoes of a beating heart. 

"Chaos.  It's a fitting name.  I think chaos has surrounded him his entire life."  The chaos of a heart pulled in many different directions, through rage and betrayal and loss.  It might explain the layer of ice he surrounded himself with.  What better barrier between a person and the pain of life?

"Chaos surrounds us all, from the moment we come squalling into this world to the moment we leave."  Ver's voice was suddenly quiet, melancholy.  When he looked at her, a type of darkness had woven through her eyes.  He touched her cheek, drawing her eyes towards him.

"And some of us don't leave.  This has taken a morbid turn.  Get dressed, my lady.  We have the hunt before us…and I am ready to go."  He gently turned her in the direction of her armoire.

"Oh, so impatient, my lord," she murmured, allowing herself to be directed by him.  As she turned, her wrap slipped and exposed the long column of her back.  Ten lines, like dark ivory on alabaster, stood out in sharp relief against the smooth skin.  Time had turned the marks of violence into something strangely beautiful.  As quickly as they were revealed they were covered as she pulled a linen shift over her head.  A corset, richly embroidered and rarely worn, swiftly cinched her waist, forcing her body into the form demanded by polite society.

"It's a good thing I don't actually have to breathe in this outfit," she muttered, grimacing.  "Damn Victoria for a prudish virgin."

She threw open the doors of her armoire and pulled out a gown of rich black velvet.  Ken took it from her and studied it.  If the neckline were any lower, he would be able to make out the pattern of embroidery on the bottom of her corset.  He coughed.  "Not this one, Ver.  If you look like a Nighthawk, you'll attract the wrong type.  We want you to look respectable and vulnerable."

She shot him a look as she sat down at her dressing table.  "Forgive me, _cher_, but I think I know a little about attracting a man."  She looked at her reflection in the mirror, frowning at an imagined imperfection.  His gaze met hers in the silvered glass.  "That dress has caught many an unwary lech."  She clamped a number of pins between her lips, and picked up her brush.

He advanced towards her.  "I'm not saying it hasn't."  He laid his hands on her shoulders, cajoling.  "What we want to catch, though, is a man who would attack a gentlewoman.  We want to catch a gentleman…  Just wear something a little more refined, please."  He dropped a kiss on her cheek, and stepped back out of the range of her hairbrush.

Her eyes mocked him, though her mouth said nothing.  Her pale fingers moved unceasingly, deftly taming her hair into a braid as thick as his wrist.  With the ease of many years of practice, she wrapped the braid around her head several times to create a type of crown, which she fastened with a few pins.  As soon as the last pin left her mouth, she retaliated.

"Spoilsport."

Along a darkened street in the heart of the city, many eyes followed the progress of a young woman.  Dressed in serviceable grey muslin, face concealed by an unadorned hat, she seemed out of place.  Everything about her spoke of quality, respectability.  A lady's maid, perhaps, or a governess.  She stopped occasionally to beg directions from passers-by, a thick accent marking her as a stranger new-come to English soil.  Few paid attention to her, intent as they were on arriving at their destinations.  Those who did stop gave confused and garbled instructions, not entirely certain of the location of the particular shop she sought.  With each moment that passed, her shoulders slumped more; her demeanour grew more depressed.

She appeared to perk up a bit when a man offered to take her directly to the shop.  A wiser woman might have been wary of the way he looked at her, but in her eagerness to come to her destination she threw caution to the wind.  A more observant person might have wondered at the path he took, leading her through alleys and back-ways until she was completely lost.  A more street savvy girl might have gotten suspicious as the areas they entered got quieter and quieter, but she was a foreigner, unused to England, and she suspected nothing.

Until he tried to kiss her.

Vainly did she protest; indeed, there was no one nearby to assist her.  She struggled in his arms, attempting to free herself.  He thrust her against the wall of the alley, clearly aroused by her helplessness.  He rubbed the evidence of his excitement against her thighs, laughing as she struggled.

"Please, monsieur, don't 'urt me!"  Her accent thickened with fear as he closed his hands on her throat.  Her fingers clawed ineffectually at his wrists as she struggled; kidskin gloves obstructed her nails.  "Aidez-moi," she gasped, writhing madly in his grasp.

"Shuddup, bitch!"  He punctuated the profanity with a hard slap to her right cheek.  The force of it sent her tumbling into the alley wall.  She cried out, a sound that combined both pain and rage.  He kicked her in the ribs, once, and then bent over and pulled her up by the neck of her dress.  "You and me are gonna play a bit, is all."  He forced his mouth over hers; forcing his tongue between her lips in a grotesque parody of what was to come.

He was so intent on his play that he didn't notice the man who appeared behind him as silently as mist.  He did notice when his arms were wrenched from the woman's body, but by then it was too late.  The woman fell to the ground as her attacker was caught in his own trap.

Ken twisted the man's arms behind his back, applying his preternatural strength, pulling him close and not trying to spare him any pain.  Bringing his mouth close to the other man's ear, he whispered, "There's a lesson for you here, but you won't live long enough to appreciate it."  He freed his right hand and dug his fingers into the prey's hair, roughly yanking his head back.  The prey whimpered, struggling.  Low female laughter echoed off the alley walls.

"It's not much fun, is it, _cochon_?" Ver said, rising up from the ground.  "It's no fun to be held against your will; to be a victim."  She stalked closer, peeling her gloves off, vulnerable no more.  Her skirt rustled softly, like wings.  She laid a hand on his chest.  "Your heart is beating so fast…like a bird."  She smiled delicately, exposing her fangs.  The prey cried out and tried to pull away.  "Do you fear me now?  I thought we were going to play…"

"Please," he cried, fear rolling off him in thick waves.  The kitten he thought he had captured had turned into a panther, and he could taste his own death in the air.  "Please let me go!"

"Let you go?" she said, amused…and angered.  "Were you going to let _me_ go?  Have you ever released a woman who said 'Let me go'?"  Nimble fingers shredded his cravat and wrenched his shirt apart.  She trailed a nail as hard as a diamond down his throat, pricking the skin slightly.

A drop of blood welled up on his throat and she caught it on her finger.  She brought her hand to her lips, then changed her mind and extended it towards Ken.  He licked the blood from her finger slowly, sensually.  The prey was panicking completely, jerking in Ken's arms like a wild animal.  Ken tightened his grip, restricting the prey's movements even further.  He placed his lips at the man's ear and whispered, "Delicious."

"My turn, I think," Ver said, and moved in closer.  She brought her mouth to the right side of the prey's neck, trailing her fangs along the path her nail had drawn.  Ken felt the moment she attacked; the prey squealed and stiffened.  Her head began to move rhythmically over his shoulder.  Ken caught his breath as she looked up at him.  She lifted her head slightly.  He could see the prey's blood on her lips.  Slowly, she lifted her hand towards Ken's head, tangling in his hair as she drew his mouth towards hers.  He tasted mortality on the lips of an immortal, and he drowned in the sensation.

As one, they returned their attention to the prey: her fangs to the right side, his to the left.  The first jet of blood rushed past his lips, sweet and hot.  Nothing could compare to the sensation of taking the lifeblood of another.  He could feel her movements through the prey's body; a sensual slither that promised heaven and delivered pleasure and torment in equal measure.  The blood coursed through the prey's veins, pulled in two directions at the heart.

It was primal, and it was erotic, and it was…wrong.

Ken pulled back at the last second, allowing Ver to finish by herself.  He let go of the body and leaned against the wall, breathing deeply.  He barely registered the moment the prey's heart stopped beating, so engrossed he was in thought.  Ver threw the body aside and wrapped her arms around Ken's waist.

Hungry kisses were pressed along his neck; trails of a dead man's blood.  Desire was there, quiet and nearly unnoticed under the sudden disgust at his action.  Killing Weaver had been an emotional act, fuelled by the depraved things Weaver had inflicted on Rachel.  There was no reason for Ken to feel guilt for avenging her.  But this deliberate hunt of a nameless victim was little more than cruelty.  It was kills like _that_ that reminded him of why he didn't _make_ kills like that.

Ver had stopped, and was looking at him with a strange expression.  "Something's changed with you."  She stepped back from him.  "The last time we shared a kill like that, you were so desperate to fuck that we didn't make it out of the alley.  Has Lucy's advice had such an effect on you?"

"No."

"Maybe you'd prefer it if I was a red-headed warrior who could best you in a 'sword' fight."  There was a definite sneer on her face as she threw out a challenge to his sexual prowess.

"Ver!  What's the matter with you?  You've never acted like…like a jealous mistress before."  That had been a key element of their friendship; they would enjoy each other when it was convenient, and never ask anything of each other.

Her expression swiftly changed from anger to contrition.  "I'm sorry, Ken," she said.  "I didn't mean it like that.  You're free to fuck whomever you want."  It was an attempt at humour, but he wasn't convinced.

"Last time we made a kill together, you didn't let the prey lay hands on you like that.  You worried me; I didn't want to take advantage of you."  He had never seen anyone lay a hand on her that she didn't invite: it was disturbing.

She turned away from him, her back rigid and unyielding.  "Any other man would."

He sighed, and laid his hands on her shoulders, pulling her close.  "I'm not any other man, Ver.  I know how they treated you in Paris.  I don't expect anything of you but friendship.  I'm not that kind of monster."

She kept her gaze straight ahead, defensive.  "We're all monsters, _cher_.  We all have our fangs and darkness.  Maybe we deserve punishment."

"Is that what you're looking for?  Punishment?"  He tightened his grip on her shoulders, forced her to turn her gaze towards him.  "Isn't this shadow-life punishment enough for you?"

She pulled out of his grasp, and began to pace slightly.  "Maybe it is for you, Ken, but I am in a different kind of darkness."

He hadn't meant to cause her pain.  The gods knew he was no saint, that he had no right to point a finger.  He had killed his best friend.  He had sent his Maker to Hell ahead of him.  How could he blame her for venting her fury on those who destroyed her life?  He didn't notice when she turned towards him again.

"I see you, trying to make my crimes of a lesser evil than yours," she said softly, her eyes bright in the alley's darkness.  "Don't, _cher_.  Nothing you did can compare to my depravity.  You killed your Maker.  I killed everyone who made me…everyone _but _my Maker.  From Etienne Charmain to the poorest worker on his estate…From my fiancé to my infant sister…Family and enemy alike…I slaughtered them all."  A moment of painful silence.  "The death of a betrayer is nothing compared to the carnage I created."

"Are you trying to convince me, Ver?" he asked quietly.  "Or yourself?"

She grinned, a shadow of her former good humour.  "You're the most intrinsically 'good' person I've ever known, Ken, and it gets annoying.  You're a century older than I am, you've had a hundred more years to wreak havoc on the lives of humans…and you didn't.  You don't.  You protect them, even though they don't deserve it.  Even though they would destroy you if they knew what you are.  Why do you care so much about them?"  The puzzlement in her eyes was clear.

"Because they do deserve protection…protection from themselves, from each other.  I can't protect them from themselves, but I can save them from the faceless monsters in the dark.  Because it makes me feel like I'm atoning for what I did in the past."  He hoped that she would understand, even though he wasn't sure he did.  He was already covered in blood; he would take up the mantle of the protector.  He didn't know if he could ever explain it to her.

For a long moment, she was silent, staring up at the patch of sky that was visible above them.  When she finally spoke, all traces of her earlier humour were gone.  "When you put it like that, _cher_, you make me feel petty.  The vengeance I felt so justified in taking ninety-five years ago seems tawdry, soiled.  I was right to do what I did, then.  I _know_ I was right.  But when I'm with you, I feel like…maybe…I was wrong."  She looked up at him, silently pleading with him to tell her that she was right, that her actions had not been excessive.

He sighed softly.  "Maybe what was right for you then isn't right anymore.  You punished everyone who had a hand in your misfortune.  The people you hurt now have nothing to do with the past."  That was the hard part, accepting that you couldn't go on blaming people for actions they had not committed.  It was as hard as accepting that you weren't to blame, either.

"Take me home," she murmured, not meeting his eyes.  He could feel both shame and frustrated desire from her, and a desperate loneliness that she had never shown before.  "Please, _cher_, take me away from here."

With more gentleness than he had ever displayed towards her, Ken took her arm and led her from the scene of their hunting.  Once they were safely away from the area, he took her above, carrying her though the rooftop maze of smoke and chimneys.  She rested her head on his shoulder like a child, her trust that he would return her safely complete.

Not wanting any of the members of the club to see its owner in such a state, Ken entered her apartment from the roof.  He laid her down on the bed and kissed her forehead softly before he left.  "Sleep well, Madeleine," he whispered as the door shut.  He stopped briefly at the third floor to inform Walter that Madame was unwell, trusting that the devoted host would take care of her.  And for the second time in as many nights, he made his way from Verderan's into the darkened streets of London.


	7. 6 The Girl in the Shadows

Chapter 6 – The Girl in the Shadows

In the fourteen days since Ken and Ran had duelled, Cherry and her spies had little to report.  Rutherford was involved in innocuous pursuits.  He attended the theatre; he gambled at White's.  He had been to see his tailor five times, refurbishing his wardrobe with tailored vests made of silk he bought in China.  He visited his mistress, a semi-respectable widow on the fringes of society, twice.  His gang of cronies accompanied him almost everywhere.  Ran Fujimiya was his silent shadow, accompanying him to the places none of the others were permitted.  Of Takaoka, there was no sign.

It was late afternoon, and Ken was in his study.  He had only just settled himself behind his desk when Cherry burst through the doors, panting as though she had run a great distance.  She looked near to fainting; alarm had leeched the colour from her skin and her lips were pale with tension.  The sunlight caught her at a sharp angle, and Ken observed the strangely Asian cast to her features.  It was slight, but incredibly obvious if one knew how to look; eyes that were caught between almond-shaped and oval: something subtle about the cheekbones.  He wondered, not for the first time, about the father she never mentioned, the mother who had died when she was a child. 

He noticed all of this in the instant before she spoke; a split-second pondering that vanished at her hurried speech.

"Master Ken?  He saw me," she gasped.  "That samurai, he saw me."  He drew his brows together sharply.  She hunched over before him, half in supplication, half in an attempt to fill her lungs with air.  In two years, he had never seen her so panicked.

"Calm yourself, Cherry," he said as he stood up.  "Sit down, I'll have Geraint bring you something to drink."  He reached for the bell-pull behind the desk just as Geraint came through the study doors, bearing a tray laden with food, glasses, and a pitcher of water.  News travelled swiftly in the Hidaka manor.  He placed the tray on the desk, bowed, and left as quietly as he had entered, closing the doors behind him as he went.  Cherry sat on the edge of one of the leather chairs, trying to calm her breathing.

Cherry was the best at what she did, and Fujimiya had still spotted her.  That thought raced through Ken's mind as she sipped obediently at the water he poured her and nibbled at a sandwich.  "Tell me exactly what happened, Cherry.  When did he see you?"

She swallowed a mouthful of sandwich, following it with a gulp of water, before explaining.  She had been watching Rutherford's house, waiting for him to leave so that she could follow.  She was only planning on following him for about a block; she had her network of spies set up so that there was always someone at every intersection, creating a mutable web.  It made the job easier, and the chances of being spotted less.  

It was just her bad luck that the samurai had caught her looking directly at the house when he reached the street.

"It was only for a second, but he looked flummoxed, Master Ken," she said.  "It was like he'd seen a ghost; he got a lot paler, and his eyes went really wide."  She fidgeted with the glass.  "It looked like he was going to come over to me, but Creepy called him, and he just followed.  I didn't go after them, because I was sure that one of the others would.  Carver, maybe.  Or Bri."

He knew that her shifty colleagues would be in touch with her as soon as it was safe, so he didn't bother to ask her to keep him informed.  He was about to remind her to be more cautious when her head popped up.

"I almost forgot," she said, a wide grin transforming her face.  "That man you described, Master Ken?  I know who he is."  She reached into one of the many pockets her current outfit provided, pulling out a small notebook.  He had purchased it for her a year ago, after realizing that she could both read and write.  She flicked to a page near the beginning.

"His name's Adamson.  Norman Adamson.  He's Rutherford's son.  His bastard."  She paused, flicking her eyes up.  "Seems Creepy ignored him all his life growing up, but when his mother died, he started living on Creepy's estate in Dorset.  He came up to London just before Creepy came back from Japan.  And," she drawled, gesturing in the direction of the window, "he's been watching the house lately."  She waited for Ken to process that information.

So, the intensely focused young man at the duel was Rutherford's illegitimate son…and he was watching Ken's house.  It didn't explain _why_ he was so fascinated with Ken, but it did bear some thought.  Cherry had only noticed his surveillance recently; had he been there earlier?  Ken let the thought simmer in the back of his mind; hopefully by the time he came back to it, some type of answer would be there.  

"The woman?  Have you seen her?" he asked.  Cherry flipped back a few pages, and consulted her notes.

"I haven't seen her, exactly," she said, "but I'm sure she's still in there.  I heard a couple of Rutherford's servants talking about her…what they'd like to do to her."  A shudder, slight but visible, racked her slender frame.  "And I heard a man and woman talking in a foreign language the other day.  I thought it was the samurai, though I haven't ever heard him talking to anyone."

"Did you hear anything specific?"  He didn't hope for much; Cherry spoke no language but English, with the occasional foray into broad Yorkshire she had picked up from old Granny Medlock.

"Uh huh."  She consulted her notes again.  "He said ah-ya a lot, and something that sounded like ma-mow-roon-da."  She looked up at him, eagerness trying to hide itself under a professional detachment.  "Does that mean anything to you, Master Ken?"

He kept his face impassive.  "Send somebody else to watch the house for the next few days, Cherry.  He's not going to be an easy mark to slip by."  He ignored the look of disappointment on her face, choosing to seat himself behind the desk again and immerse himself in thought.  He was only idly aware of her putting her book away and carrying the tray of food out of the study.  He barely noticed the door closing behind her.

Cherry had said that Ran looked surprised to see her; flummoxed, she said.  It was the first time she had seen any type of expression on his face.  Had it been the realization that she was watching him, or was there something about her appearance that had disturbed him?  She looked like many of the street urchins in London; ragged and underfed.  She tended to insert herself in groups of people when she was in public, to make herself less obvious.  For a neighbourhood like Rutherford's, she wore nondescript clothing of the lower housemaid variety.  What could there have been about a young maidservant that had the power to surprise the samurai?

He swept his hand along the polished mahogany of the desk, thinking, not for the first time, that it would be handy if he possessed the vampiric powers described in folklore: specifically, the ability to turn himself into mist or a small animal.  He couldn't count on Cherry and her spies to accurately bring back a conversation between Ran and Takaoka, when all they could make out were snatches of words they didn't understand

Aya.  Was that Takaoka's given name?  She could be Ran's lover.  If he was sold into Rutherford's service, she might have chosen to be sold also.  Perhaps it was better for her to be Rutherford's slave and be near Fujimiya rather than to remain behind, alone.  That could have been what Ran meant when he implied she knew what she was getting into.

But he hadn't been able to sense anything between them that first night.  There was a kind of connection between lovers that left an intangible impression on them: a sensation akin to a scent, a taste.  Ken hadn't sensed anything like that between them the night of Lucy's ball.  And the idea he had of Ran being averse to a personal relationship was still strong; the man had a body that screamed carnality but his emotions were too firmly hidden.

Ma-mow-roon-da, Cherry had said.  _Mamorunda_.  Who was protecting whom in Rutherford's house?  And, more importantly, would he have to kill Ran to get to Rutherford?

He was not a patient man by nature, and the five months he had waited for Rutherford's return had grated heavily on his nerves.  He wanted more than Rutherford's death; he wanted to expose the man's crimes to the eyes of society, to give his victims' families a face to put their hatred to, and then he wanted to annihilate him completely.  He wanted to rip Rutherford's beating heart from his chest and crush it under his foot.  He wanted nothing of such evil to remain.

The monster he struggled with every day raged inside him, and it was only a matter of time before he could contain it no longer.  And, at that time, he wouldn't try.

The next day found Ken behind his desk again, attempting to sort out various bills.  Ver teased him for being so punctual with his creditors, but he hated the thought of dunning simple merchants out of their money.  It wasn't like he hadn't accumulated enough over the course of two centuries.  The plain truth of the matter was that after so many years spent in Europe, he still hadn't mastered English currency, and he hated to have to have someone else explain it to him.  Thus, he had been alone all afternoon, as none of the servants were brave enough to disturb him.

The doors to the office were abruptly pushed open.  Ken looked up, annoyed.  Whatever irritable remark he had been about to make died unspoken at the sight of the couple before him.  Geraint waltzing naked with Lady Wagnall's eldest daughter couldn't have shocked him more.  A bill from Emile Gagnon dropped to the desk.

Ran Fujimiya stood in the doorway, firmly but gently holding Cherry before him.  Cherry looked nervous but not terrified, which was a mark in Fujimiya's favour.  If she had looked frightened, Ken would have had to kill him.  He knew that Ran had seen her the day before, but hadn't realized the other man had connected the two of them.

Fujimiya's first words dispelled that illusion.  "_You_!" he snarled, free hand dropping to the hilt of his katana.  "What are you doing here?"

Ken rose slowly, acutely aware of his lack of weaponry.  Ran hadn't known Cherry worked for him…so it had to be something about Cherry herself that drew him.

"I could ask you the same question," he said, stepping out from behind the desk.  "What exactly do you think you're doing with my servant?"

"You sent her to spy on me.  Are you in league with Takatori as well, you traitorous dog?"  His tone was brutal and accusing, but his grip on Cherry remained gentle.  She looked towards Ken, not certain, as he spoke in his native tongue, what Fujimiya was saying.

"It was an accident, Master Ken.  I didn't mean for him to catch me."  The confidence he had worked so hard at building in her had fled; she wilted in Fujimiya's grip like a flower.  Before Ken could say anything comforting, Ran had moved.  He led her unresisting form to the nearest chair and made her sit down.

"It's all right, Cherry," Ken murmured.  "I told you he'd be a hard mark to slip past."  Once Ran had stepped back from the girl, Ken asked, "What possible reason do you have for accusing me of being in league with a corrupt politician who traffics in human slavery?"

Ran's face became stoic again, all previous traces of anger erased.  His posture stiffened, and his hand dropped to his hilt again.  "Because you sent _this _girl to spy on me, to watch my every movement and ensure I am fulfilling my duty."  He stepped forward, moving closer until Ken was forced to look up slightly to maintain eye contact.  "Tell your master that I will fulfil my duty, as disgusting as it is, and that if he lays a hand on her, just once, I will destroy everything around him."  
Ken leaned back against the desk, feigning nonchalance.  "Is that supposed to mean something to me?" he asked, crossing his arms over his chest.  "Because all you're doing is convincing me that you're an idiot."

"The girl," he hissed, pointing towards her.  "Why else would you have sent her to spy on me?"

"I sent her to spy on _Rutherford _because she's the best eyes and ears in London.  Rutherford wouldn't have caught her."  Who was the _she_ Ran referred to?  It couldn't be Takaoka, if he was worried about _Takatori_ harming her.  It had to be someone he had left behind in Japan.  "It's nothing to do with you.  If you want to yell and rave at me, you will wait until I have spoken with her."  He didn't wait for Fujimiya's assent.  Switching back to English, he asked Cherry to explain how and where she had been discovered.

As she described the scene to him, he closed his eyes and allowed his mind to paint the events out to him…

_She had hidden in the mouth of the alley across from Rutherford's tailor's shop.  It was dark and the walls were close and a large wooden palisade structure was at her back: she felt secure there.  Master Ken had told her to let someone else shadow Rutherford, but she couldn't stop.  She was the best at what she did: everyone knew it.  Creepy could never in a million years catch her; she moved within the shadows like a cat._

_She had watched Rutherford and his cronies enter the shop earlier, the samurai close behind.  Personally, she couldn't understand how the man could spend so much time at his tailor's and still look so atrocious; she much preferred Master Ken's understated wardrobe to Creepy's outlandish coats and vests.  She even thought the _samurai's_ outfit was better, no matter how strange he looked next to the Englishmen._

_So intent was she in her surveillance of the shop door that she didn't sense the danger behind her._

_Only willpower gathered over years of living on the streets prevented her from crying out as hands gripped her from behind.  She went limp immediately, hoping to slip out from under her attacker's grasp, but he was prepared for that.  He switched his hold from her shoulders to her waist, pinning her arms to her sides.  She tried to kick backwards, but again he was a step ahead of her; he lifted her up so that her feet dangled, applying pressure around her waist.  Now she was ready to scream; his hand over her mouth forestalled her.  He pulled her further into the sheltering darkness of the alley, turned so that he was between her and the street, and dropped her down in front of him._

_She reached for the small knife she had hidden in her bodice, and whirled around to face him.  He caught her by the wrist and twisted her arm up behind her, forcing her body against his.  The knife dropped from her suddenly nerveless fingers.  She looked at his face for the first time, prepared to spit and bite if that was what it took to get free._

_Her attacker was the samurai…and he looked shocked to see her.  They both froze._

_"Aya," he whispered, peering down at her.  His voice was husky, softer than she recalled.  His grip loosened enough that she could slip free.  "Aya," he whispered again._

_"What?"  It slipped free before she knew she was going to speak.  What was an _ah-ya?__

_"_Imouto_."  The word rolled off his tongue like a benediction._

_"I don't understand you," she said, edging away.  This man protected Creepy Rutherford; he couldn't be trusted.  No matter that he had a voice like the angel Gabriel himself, he was dangerous.  Tears started welling in her eyes; confused and afraid, she wanted to be back in the ordered chaos that was Master Ken's house.  There was safety only with Master Ken…_

_"You look…your face…"  His English failed him as he stared at her, transfixed.  He reached towards her face and she jumped backwards, crying out, "Don't!"_

_He pulled his hand away, amazed at her fear.  "Shh.  I won't hurt you."  When she continued to cringe away from him, his face hardened, assuming the expressionless expression she was accustomed to.  When he said, "Take me to your master," his voice was cold and hard again._

"And so I had to bring him here, Master Ken.  I tried to get away, but he was holding my arm so I couldn't.  I'm sorry."  Cherry hunched miserably in the chair, not making eye contact.  He could almost taste her disappointment in herself; she had gone against his wishes, and then she had gotten caught.  He laid a gentle hand on her head.

"Don't worry, Cherry," he said, forcing lightness into his tone.  "Go get yourself something to eat and have a rest.  I'll talk to Mr. Fujimiya alone."  She rose and made her way to the door, keeping her head low and Ken between her and Fujimiya.  Geraint opened the study doors just as she got to them.  "Geraint, take her down to Molly, she's had a bad day."  Geraint nodded and led the unhappy girl away. 

So, Aya was not Fujimiya's lover, but his sister…and Cherry looked enough like her to distract the man in mid-attack.  It explained nothing…but hinted at so much.  Ran had remained silent throughout Cherry's explanation, eyes riveted on her face.  Ken had seen a kind of longing in the young man's eyes; a loneliness, a homesickness.  He had not left his Aya willingly, that was for certain.  That was why he had jumped to an irrational conclusion upon realizing Cherry was in Ken's service.

Perhaps it was time to try to clear the misunderstandings away…

"The man you serve is responsible for the death of my woman," he said.  "I am bound to take vengeance for her."  Fujimiya's eyes widened slightly.

"He killed your woman?"

Ken sighed, settling more comfortably against the desk.  "He didn't, physically.  But he incited the one who _did _kill her to do the deed."  He gestured towards the chair recently vacated by Cherry.  "Please sit, Fujimiya-san."  The other man did so warily; obviously he had not spent a great deal of his time _sitting_ at Rutherford's.  "Surely you've noticed he is not a man of honour?"  When Ran said nothing, Ken changed his approach.

"The woman you travel with…Takaoka-san…is she well?"  The samurai's eyes narrowed.  _Strange that he says so much with such a small gesture._  "I found it odd that Cherry saw no sign of her."

"That man does not permit that she leave his house," Fujimiya admitted, grudgingly.  "He would prefer that she not leave his bedroom."  There was anger in his tone; a soft thread of fury that tried to hide under indifference.

"Has he had a physician look at her injuries?"  Again, silence.  "I could smell her blood on him, Fujimiya-san, as I'm sure you can."

"What do you know of blood?"  Fujimiya's eyes were ice.  "You, a dog who abandoned his homeland?  The skies rained red; the streets ran with it like rivers… You did not live through the years of blood."

Ken rolled his eyes.  "Don't change the subject.  I didn't have to live through the end of the Bakufu to know the smell of a woman's blood on a man's hand.  I know more about the blood of the innocent than you can ever pretend to."

Silence stretched between them.  Ken imagined he could hear his words echoing in the confines of the study, bouncing off cherry bookcases and being muffled by velvet drapes.  He sighed again.  "Who tends to her injuries?"

"I do."

Fujimiya's voice was soft.  "I wash her cuts.  I apply ice to her bruises, balm to her burns.  I hold her when that man has finished with her."  He looked into Ken's eyes.  "What kind of country is this, that such a man walks the streets with no fear?  Why do the people not cast him out?"  
Why, indeed.  "Because they do not know what he is."  Ken pulled himself up onto the desk and crossed his legs beneath him.  "He is a master at hiding his true nature…and most of these English do not care to look beneath the surface.  That is why."  He folded his hands together.  "That is why I must take vengeance, why I sent that girl to watch him.  _I_ know what he is, and _I_ will destroy him."

He sighed inwardly.  There could be no turning back after his next declaration.  "Now that you know my intent, my mission will be more difficult…but I will continue."

The samurai rose gracefully.  He adjusted the magnolia sheaths of his daisho, keeping a hand on the katana's hilt.  "It is my duty to stop you.  I am bound to keep him safe."

"For Aya's sake?"  The look that Ran shot him would have slain a weaker man.  Ken was glad his knees were curled up under him; otherwise, they might have trembled at the force of that glare.

"Mistake me not, Hidaka," the other man growled.  "I do not care if that man lives or  dies, except that his death would stain my honour…and make vulnerable the person that I fight for.  I will protect him…but I will not give him any warning."  He stepped closer to the desk Ken perched upon.  "I give you my word on that."  

For a moment their eyes locked, iced violet and calm brown.  Silence fell around them; Ken imagined the dust motes froze mid-fall in the sunlight.  There was something around them; emotions made almost tangible in the silence.  Then Fujimiya pulled back, walked to the door.  "Don't send that girl to watch again," he said as he left.  He closed the door behind him, and Ken was alone again.

He wasn't certain why he had revealed what he had.  It was entirely possible that Ran would report everything to Rutherford, and the edge of surprise would be gone.  Letting the samurai know the reasons for his pursuit of Rutherford had not been in his plans.

All he could think of was that he knew Ran would keep silent.  There was no trust between them, but Ran had said he would not reveal all, and Ken had to believe him.  The man lacked social graces, true, but he possessed honour in spades and would not dishonour himself by going back on his word.  There was respect between them, if not trust.

And that would have to suffice…for the moment.

Notes:

I hadn't realized it would be difficult to write when my friends started wanting to know what I was doing…Trying to explain this to them that, No, I can't publish it, and No, I don't think you should read it has been difficult.  Not to mention that work, while mind-numbingly repetitive, has been stealing away my creativity…Curse my financial dependence…

Chapter 7 should follow soon, if the Powers That Be will it.


	8. 7 The Mirror's Tale

Chapter 7 – The Mirror's Tale

_"Darling Ken,_

_I have done as you asked and requested Edwin Rutherford's presence in my box at the theatre this evening.  He agreed in a manner most slimy, and has promised to bring along his 'acquisitions' so I might practice my Japanese.  Detestable man._

_Don't make me wait too long,_

_Lucifera"_

Lucy Fairchild was in fine form.  Dressed in an evening gown of cobalt blue silk and adorned with tasteful sapphires, she was the picture of a society matron who wielded great power among the ton.  Queen Victoria herself was known to have copies of Lucy's travel journals, which detailed the various countries she had visited in her youth.  Many who wished to gain the attention of the bereaved queen sought to curry favour with the sometimes outlandish Lady Fairchild; indeed, when Ken entered her box at twenty minutes before the curtain rose, it was packed with many such toadies.

As soon as she saw him, Lucy waved the others away.  "My dear Mr. Hidaka," she trilled.  "How very good of you to accept my offer this evening."  She extended a graceful hand, which he caught and lifted to his lips.

"Dearest Lady Fairchild," he murmured.  "It is you who are too good, to invite an ignorant foreigner to share your box.  I know how much you enjoy the theatre."  Her mouth quirked up slightly at such an exaggeration; she did not enjoy the theatre at all, and only maintained a box because society expected it of her.

"Doing it up a bit too brown, aren't you?" she murmured as the door closed behind the last exiting bootlicker.  "Half of London knows I only come here to observe them."

He maintained his gentle grip on her left hand as he took the seat beside her.  "Well, I couldn't very well say 'Thank you for letting me sit in your box so that I can try to get information about Rutherford from the woman he purchased in Japan while you distract him', now could I?"  He made a face.  "I've already let the man's bodyguard in on the surprise, there's no need to let everyone else know."  

She laughed.  "Poor Kenken.  Still sore about that?"

He chose to ignore her comment, paying attention to their linked hands instead.  The paleness of her skin enhanced the golden tones in his; his sturdiness made her slenderness all the more fragile.  He turned her hand over and smiled.  "You wear this, even though it doesn't match your dress?"

_This_ was a large oval moonstone set in silver.  It changed colour as the light hit it; a translucent white stone that flashed iridescent blues and pinks as she moved.  He had given it to her twenty-five years before, on their last night together.

She smiled.  "I always wear it," she said.  "A gift from a friend I cherish above all."  He lifted her hand to his cheek, pressing it softly, and released it.  He was conscious that many eyes were on the Fairchild box.  He couldn't afford to expose Lucy to the gossiping masses; though she claimed that she cared little for the rules of society, she had a position to maintain.  In the eyes of many, she could appear to be a foolish older woman, throwing herself at a man young enough to be her son.  The two of them knew the truth of their relationship, but Society functioned on appearances and Society could be cruel.

He was glad he had relinquished his hold on her hand a moment later, as the door to the box opened.  Edwin Rutherford entered with his foreign entourage, and the collective gaze of the audience turned on him.  

Rutherford, in black evening wear accented with a garish waistcoat of sky-hued silk, was a-glitter with rings, pocket watches, fobs, and other vulgar displays of wealth.  Ken guessed the man was wearing more jewellery than he and Lucy combined.  Fujimiya wore almost the exact outfit he had worn the evening of Lucy's ball.  His only adornment was a thin gold earbob that dangled from his left ear almost to his shoulder.  Ken couldn't remember if he had worn it before.

It was Takaoka, though, who drew all eyes.  Her kimono was black silk with an embroidered pattern of waves around the hem in every shade of blue nature could produce.  The pattern was repeated in shades of grey on her dark blue obi.  The outfit coordinated with both of her companions, and nicely complimented Lucy's gown.  The neckline of her kimono, while modest by English reckoning, was much lower than Japanese standards, exposing the hollow at the base of her throat and hinting at the generous curve of her breasts.  Her carefully upswept hair revealed the delicate column of her neck, and her ears glittered with silver and shell.

Ken marvelled at her beauty.  If he had compared Ran to a warrior statue, Takaoka resembled nothing so much as a doll crafted from ivory.  There was no one in the theatre with whom to compare her; the fairest English rose faded in the presence of such an exotic blossom.

Rutherford was bowing over Lucy's hand when Ken finally tore his eyes away from Takaoka.  

"Lady Fairchild," he said.  "Words cannot express the delight I felt when I received your invitation this morning.  So gracious, so imperious, so…unexpected."  He pressed a wet kiss to her hand.

"You give me too much credit, Lord Rutherford," she said, extracting her hand from his grasp.  "I felt that our last meeting was…somewhat unpleasant, and I have no desire to always be quarrelling."  She smiled up at him, veiling her eyes beneath her lashes.  "It is bad for one's reputation, to quarrel constantly with a fellow leader of the ton."

He smiled down at her.  It was a singularly unpleasant expression.  "I wasn't aware you held your reputation in such high esteem, my dear Lucy."  His glance flickered in Ken's direction.  "If you do, associating with Hidaka here is doubtless doing you no good."

"Play nicely, Sir Edwin," she said, a hint of censure creeping into her tone.  "Mr. Hidaka is my guest, as you are, and I must insist that you behave yourselves.  Besides," she added, "you are keeping me from my other purpose."  She rose, and crossed from her chair to the door of the box where Takaoka and Fujimiya stood.  She inclined her head formally, saying in Japanese, "Takaoka-san, Fujimiya-san, you are both very welcome.  I hope your stay in England thus far has been pleasant."

Ken prided himself on the musical quality of her voice; he had given her the rudiments of his language, and she had proven a quick study.  She had barely a trace of an accent, and her intonation and inflections were those of a native speaker.

Fujimiya inclined his head but said nothing.  It was Takaoka who responded, thanking Lucy most humbly for the opportunity to take in an evening in a European theatre.  Her voice was high and soft.  His first lover, Yuriko, had had such a voice.  He had learned at a cost that a small voice could mask great secrets.  Ken wondered how many secrets hid beneath Takaoka's voice.

Ken had remained seated during the play of manners between Lucy and Rutherford, and left it to Lucy to manipulate the seating arrangements.  There were five chairs in the box: four in a gently arched semi-circle, with the fifth near the door.  Fujimiya stood closest to the door, but showed no inclination to sit.  Lucy led Takaoka by the hand, and seated her in the furthest chair to the left, next to Ken.

She led Rutherford to the chair furthest from Ken and seated herself between the two men, saying, "I must keep you to myself, Sir Edwin.  I will confess my ulterior motive in inviting you to the theatre this evening."

"I await your confession with bated breath," he drawled, his gaze heavy-lidded.  "Dare I hope you are about to admit your undying passion for me?"

Lucy laughed, a delicate, frothy sound.  "Sir Edwin, surely you know that no woman dares to do so to your face?  Fully half the women in London cherish a secret _tendre_ for you… For me to admit mine would expose me to the barbs of my fellow afflictees."  She made a great show of self-deprecation, and he laughed.  

Her expression became more serious.  "Seriously, my dear sir, my reason for summoning you so autocratically this evening is purely selfish.  I must have details of your journey to the East.  And do not think to fob me off with your insistence that it was all filthy and savage," she said, cutting him off before he could protest.  "I have journeyed as far as India, and I have seen much.  But you have tales from further East than I will ever journey, and I must insist that you relate them to me."  

She leaned closer to him.  "And in return, I will provide you with a sumptuous repast at intermission.  You know you enjoy my chef's labours."  

"I think you are not being completely honest with me, Lucy," Rutherford drawled.  "If all you wished of me was travel details, why meet at the theatre?  Why insist on my bringing my servants?"  

She leaned back, resting her left arm on the arm of her chair.  "Several reasons, Edwin.  First, for the _cachet_.  There are many in the theatre this evening who will envy me your companionship.  Second, for the stories.  Yours, and Takaoka's.  I'll get around to questioning her later.  And third, because it pleases me to do so."  She smiled again, sphinx-like.  "I seek my pleasures where I can find them, my dear."

He stared at her for a moment longer, carefully considering.  Eventually, he gave in to the inevitable, and he began to regale her with the story of his journey to Japan by land and sea.  The rise of the curtain, signalling the beginning of the play, did not deter him in the telling.

On Lucy's other side, Ken had not been idle.  As soon as Lucy had started beguiling Rutherford, Ken had turned slightly in his seat.  Takaoka sat beside him, her back straight and eyes towards the stage.

"Good evening, Takaoka-san," he murmured.  "How are you enjoying your theatre experience so far?"

"It has been most pleasant thus far, Hidaka-san," she murmured in reply.  "However, I was surprised at how…physical…these English are when they are in a crowded space.  I was jostled several times as we made our way from the carriage."  He smiled at the carefully concealed distaste in her voice.  He had made a similar observation when he first came to the West.  

"The English are quite contradictory," he said.  "They dislike too much casual contact with their peers most of the time, but push against each other like animals when they want to get somewhere."

"Ahh," she said.  "I had wondered if they were always like that."  They sat in silence for a long moment, both observing the audience below them.  The sounds and scents of the crowd mingled into one sensation.  He found it at once compelling and unsettling.

"I had hoped you might answer a question for me, Takaoka-san," he said, turning his head further in her direction.  She said nothing, but her posture and air seemed receptive.  "How much of our language does Lord Rutherford understand?"  The lights were lowered; the curtain rose, and the first actors stepped on to the stage below them.  He used the cover of applauding to sneak a glance at Rutherford, whose gaze was on the stage.

Takaoka's face was serene as she watched the beginning of the play unfold.  "His grasp of the language is good enough for casual conversation in Tokyo, Edo-that-was, but in the countryside to the west of the city, he is at a loss."  

"It's fortunate, then, that I spent several years in Osaka," he said, switching into the slightly archaic dialect of the west.  "We can speak privately."

"It is so," she agreed in the same tongue, flicking her gaze towards him.  "But what can you have to say to me that my master may not hear?"  Her eyes were unfathomable; dark pools fringed by darker lashes.

"It is the questions I have to ask I would prefer him not to hear," Ken answered.  "First, might I have your given name, Takaoka-san?"  It was impertinent on his part, and he knew it; as an unmarried woman, she was under no obligation to reveal her name to him.

"My father named me Kyoko."  _Mirror_.  A smile briefly crossed her lips.  "He said that the koi in his pond were still at the moment of my birth, and the moon's reflection on the pond's surface was so clear it was as if two moons lit up the night."  The smile faded.  "But I do not think that my name is what you seek."

"You are perceptive, Takaoka-san," he said.  "I seek to know more about you and the warrior behind us."  He was conscious of Fujimiya behind him, and Rutherford to his right.  Lucy was keeping Rutherford occupied with questions which he answered with great animation.  Every so often, however, his eyes would drift, and Ken would feel the man's gaze upon him, burning him.  Kyoko kept her eyes to the stage and her voice low, trying to give the appearance of commenting on the play.  

"He does not wish to be here," she murmured, not bothering to look behind her at Fujimiya's rigid form.  "I cannot say I blame him.  His heart is far from here."  She smiled slightly again, sadness shading her eyes.

"With his Aya?" he asked, careful to keep his voice low.  She slanted a gaze at him, questioning.

"You know of Aya?"  When he nodded, she sighed.  "Aya is the key to his obedience.  Should he fail in his duty, she is the one who will pay.  The poor kitten…"

"Can you tell me why the two of you are here?" he asked.

"The story is not wholly mine to tell, Hidaka-san.  Indeed, my part in his story is minimal, and does not reflect well upon me."  The sadness he had observed in her eyes had made its way into her voice.

"Please," he murmured, keeping an ear toward the others.

"Very well, Hidaka-san," she said.  "I shall tell you what I know, and leave the judgment of that knowledge to you.  Ran's father was a samurai, talented and strong, but of insignificant birth.  Ran's mother was a sweet and gentle woman, who had endured much during her lifetime.  She was the second child of one Kitada-san, a warrior who had taken a _gaijin _wife_,_ a wanderer from the West.  Katsue-san had her mother's colouring, scarlet hair and violet eyes, which she passed on to her son.  Aya-chan more closely resembled her father, but bore also the strange eyes of her grandmother.  They were a very close family."

She paused, as if uncertain of how to continue.  "I do not know how much you know about the beginning of the conflict in our homeland, Hidaka-san.  Ran has not been forthcoming about what he has learned of you."

"I know of the roots of the conflict," Ken replied.  His voice was hard, remembering how Japan had changed over the course of his lifetime.

"Ah.  Fujimiya-san died in a skirmish before the war officially began.  He supported the Ishin movement, and had many supporters in the ranks of the lower samurai.  Katsue-san followed soon after.  Some said it was a chill that settled in her lungs that carried her off; I have always felt that her grief was too strong for her body to contain it."

She paused again, observing the actors onstage.  "The playwrights enjoy similar themes, do they not?  A love so overpowering that the lovers cannot exist without each other?  Strange, to twine love and death so closely together…"  Her voice trailed off, watching the story of a different conflict unfold before her.  She drew a lacquered fan from the sleeve of her kimono and plied it delicately before her.

"The children?" he prompted, drawing her back.

"Yes," she murmured.  "The children… When their parents died, they fell into the care of their mother's niece, Hanae.  It was Ran's misfortune that the elder brother of Hanae's husband was a calculating, manipulative demon."

"Takatori," Ken said.  She nodded.

"Reiji Takatori saw the boy's potential immediately, his drive and determination, and he played upon his desire to see the new world emerge."  She looked at him from the corner of her eye.  "He was the right hand of the Revolution, an executioner in the name of progress, but it took a terrible toll on him.  One cannot labour long in darkness without losing a piece of one's soul.  For Ran, the only spot of light in his life was Aya.  All it took was one smile, one laugh, and his strength was renewed."

The young hero made his first appearance on the stage, tall and strong, filled with the pride of youth.  The audience applauded.

"And Reiji observed…and plotted," she said.  "He was one of a number of men who turned the Revolution to their profit.  He amassed more wealth and power during the Bakumatsu than any of its visionaries.  And while he was observing Ran, Ran was watching him…and Ran came to understand that the new era he was struggling for would belong to men like Reiji in the end."

Ken could picture it clearly.  The idealistic young warrior turned into a puppet, his strings pulled by a clever schemer, falling further and further into darkness.  And at the end of those long years, to be sold into slavery far from the homeland he had sacrificed so much to reshape.

"I was often in their house during that troubled time," she continued, "as my brother served Reiji and my sister, before her death, was his wife.  Their cousin Hanae is my closest friend, and her husband has always been kind to me.  And so it was that Reiji chose to send me into this exile with Ran.  My brother would not raise a hand to defend me; even if he were not loyal to Reiji, he cares nothing for me."

There was no bitterness in her voice.  If her brother's betrayal of their family connection bothered her, it did not show in her re-telling.  She might have been discussing the weather, or any number of innocuous subjects.

But pity coloured her voice when she continued.  "I am Ran's constant reminder.  If he does not fulfil his duty to Rutherford, Aya will suffer my fate.  Reiji will use her in the same way Rutherford has used me."  She glanced at him again.  "And that is as much of the tale as I can relate, Hidaka-san.  If there is more you wish to know, you must ask Ran."

He nodded his thanks, and they both turned their attention back to the stage.  Ken was lost among his thoughts, re-enacting the events that had led Kyoko and Ran into Rutherford's hands.  He understood completely Ran's shock and rage at the sight of Cherry, who so resembled his Aya.  He understood why a noble warrior would protect a man he despised, to keep safe the last member of his family.  And he knew that Ran had been listening the entire time Kyoko had spoken of the things he endured.

Ken could feel Ran's gaze on the back of his neck, could hear the steady beating of his heart.  He tried not to fidget, not to betray his awareness of the other man, but it was difficult.  He forced himself to concentrate on the play.

It was one Ken had seen often in the years he had been in Europe.  He didn't care much for the tale of warring families and star-cross'd lovers, but he could sense Kyoko's interest.  It seemed the dainty woman's grasp of English was good enough to follow the archaic poetry and prose, and he wondered from whom she had learned the language.

When the curtain fell at intermission, he asked her about it.

"Before my father's death, he was friends with a Dutch physician named Van Helsing.  Van Helsing's wife was English by birth and spoke little Japanese.  I learned Dutch and English from her."  She offered a guarded smile.  "In many ways, I found Dutch easier to learn, but English more melodious to speak."  

He laughed.  "I will take your word for it, Takaoka-san.  I found them both difficult to learn, and to speak."  He glanced to his right, to make certain Lucy was keeping Rutherford occupied.  "Lady Fairchild speaks both Dutch and Japanese.  If there is something you wish to speak of privately with her, it would be wise to use Dutch.  To the best of my knowledge, Rutherford doesn't speak it."

She lowered her lashes demurely.  "I tested that when he was in Reiji's house.  Unless he is a better dissembler than he appears to be, he understands nothing.  Not many men respond well to being called the flatulent offspring of a pig and a rat."  She pronounced it so modestly that it took a moment for the insult to sink in, but when it did, Ken laughed so hard that both Lucy and Rutherford looked at him.

He was trying to come up with a suitable cover, when the door of the box opened, and one of the theatre's liveried servants entered, bearing a note on a tray.  It was addressed to Ken, and he scanned through it quickly.  Folding it neatly, he turned to Lucy.

"My dear Lady Fairchild," he said, "I'm afraid I've been summoned away.  I hope you'll forgive my departure."  She met his eyes directly, searching.  What she saw there made her worry, but she simply nodded.  He looked at Rutherford.  "So sorry to cut our evening short, Rutherford," he said.  "It's been interesting."  

"Indeed," Rutherford drawled.  "Most interesting."  He looked as though he would say more, but Lucy prudently interrupted him, allowing Ken the opportunity to escape.  

As he passed by Fujimiya, the samurai turned his head slightly, making eye contact.  Once again, as their eyes met he felt the strange feeling of connection he had sensed between them in his study.  It played at the back of his mind, taunting him; he felt that he should recognize it, should be able to name it…but before he could, Fujimiya turned his face forward again, and the moment was lost.

Once outside the Fairchild box, Ken hurried down the corridor, down the stairs, through the lobby.  The teeming masses of theatregoers hampered his progress, and he struggled with a desire to simply push them all out of his way.  Eventually, he made it through the overly perfumed crowd and exited the theatre.

He hailed a cab immediately, and gave the driver the address.  As the horses pulled away from the curb, he settled back against the seat and pulled the note from his pocket.  The scent of perfume, a wild and intoxicating blend, was caught on the parchment, and the message, in elegant cursive, was cryptic.

_"Cher,_

_I know you are engaged at present with the so-witty Lady Fairchild and most-disagreeable Rutherford, but I have a desperate need of your company on the third floor.  I have a visitor who you should speak with – he may be dined on shortly._

_Your favourite hunting partner."_

* * *

Author's Notes

Thanks to everyone who has reviewed this so far – your encouragement means a great deal to me.  

Just a couple of notes on the meanings I have attached to different names – when I started this story, I wasn't aware of which kanji was used for Ran's name.  I chose to use the kanji for 'chaos', because I felt it was appropriate to his character.  After finally getting my copy of the manga, I realized they used a different kanji, but had 'chaos' too firmly embedded in my mind to bother changing it.

For Kyoko Takaoka, I've never seen her actual name spelled out, only her code-name.  I got her background info from a website, and it may be mistaken, I'm not sure.  I chose 'mirror' as my interpretation of her name, for reasons that hopefully will reveal themselves in the coming chapters.

Also, I've been having a little difficulty with my research – if you've observed any historical inaccuracies that rub you the wrong way, let me know.

Like it? Hate it? Wish to tear me to shreds for Ran's similarity to another redheaded Bakumatsu-era samurai? Drop me a line 


	9. Humble Apology

A Note of Humble Apology

Ah, hi.

This note is an apology to those of you who have read my story so far, and have been frustrated with the lack of updates.  Some of you have been good enough to send me emails enquiring as to the future of The Night Path.  I realized that I owe you some type of explanation.

After I put up the last chapter, I was set to get to work on Chapter 8.  Unfortunately, life threw a rock in the calm waters of my mind…I entered into a period of utter chaos in my life, emotionally and financially.  School took a turn for the worse, and once I finally got all of that sorted out, I no longer knew where Chapter 8 was going anymore.  Nothing I wrote was even remotely connected to what had gone before it – and I didn't want to have that kind of a disjointed story.

So I had to back away from the story for a while, and hope that inspiration would strike and my muse would return.  I read recently that an author shouldn't put up a story serially unless they have the whole thing written ahead of time…that an author has a responsibility to the reader.  I think that is true, and I wish that I had read that before I got us all embroiled in this.  But your words of encouragement have meant a lot to me, and they inspire me to try to do better.

Some of you might be saying, "But you wrote a story for a different fandom during your break!  Traitor!"  (Well, I hope not :-))  It's true, I did write a Star Trek story during my off-time, and it was a refreshing change.  It also practically wrote itself over the course of an afternoon, and I looked at it as a valuable writing exercise.

Basically, this is a note to say, "Hang on, I haven't forgotten this story.  I'm trying my best."  My housemate has been riding me about this lately, and she is quite capable of beating me up if I don't get going soon.  Really, she is.

skandrae


End file.
